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A 


WORKMAN’S CONFESSIONS 


BY 

EMILE SOUVESTRE 


TRANSLA TED FROM THE FRENCH 



NEW roEN: HUNT EATON. 
CINCINNA TI: CRANSTON STOWE. 
1891. 





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Copyright, 1891, by 
HUNT & EATON, 
New York. 


\ 


CONTENTS 


CHAPTER I. p*ge 

A Child op the Faubourgs 5 

CHAPTER IL 

The Little Silver Cross 14 

CHAPTER HI. 

Widow and Orphan 20 

CHAPTER IV. 

On Holy Monday 27 

CHAPTER V. 

Mother Madeleine 41 

CHAPTER VI. 

The Enemy Strikes 60 

CHAPTER VII. 

The Great Contractor 77 

CHAPTER VIII. 

The Mother’s Last Gift 88 

CHAPTER IX. 

Sudden Misfortune 96 


4 


Contents. 


CHAPTER X. page 

Uphill Work 114 

CHAPTER XI. 

Father Mauricet’s Trouble 131 

CHAPTER XIL 

At Montmorency 148 

CHAPTER XIIL 

Prosperous Years 166 

CHAPTER XIV. 

When Age Steals On igo 


A WORKMAN’S CONFESSIONS. 


CHAPTER I. 

A CHILD OF THE FAUBOURGS. 

S far back as I can remember I recall 



^ living with my father and mother in a 
house of two stories in the Rue de Château- 
Landon, near the Barrière des Vertus. 

On the ground-floor lodged, all alone, an old- 
clothes merchant who did his business during 
the day, returned in the evening, never spoke 
to any one, made no noise, and lived as quietly 
as a dead man in his grave. 

Above the clothes-seller dwelt Mother Cau- 
ville, an excellent woman, who was a poor 
widow with three children. While her hus- 
band lived all were well supported, but at his 
death “her legs lacked to carry them,” as the 
good woman said, and it was necessary to go 
upon her courage. The brave woman, har- 
nessed to a hand-cart, set herself to hawking 


6 


A Workman’s Confessions. 


vegetables through the streets ; the oldest 
daughter bought a large basket and peddled 
the fruits of the season, and the son became 
a roving chair-mender. The little Rose, then 
eight years of age, stayed at home and kept 
house. At first they suffered much misery. 
They measured the mouthfuls, they blew upon 
their fingers to warm them, they slept upon 
straw ; but, little by little, the earnings of the 
mother and the two children had increased ; the 
farthings grew to pieces of fifteen sous ; they 
were able to have a mattress, to light a stove, 
and enlarge the loaf of bread. Rose, in her 
spare moments, made sulphur matches, which 
her sister sold, and knit stockings for all the 
family. When I quitted the house these brave 
people had furniture, Sunday clothes, and a 
credit at the baker’s. 

The recollection of the Cauvilles has always 
remained with me as proof of what the least 
resources can produce when improved by per- 
severance and hearty good-will. It is by the 
sum of little efforts that one reaches great re- 
sults ; each one of our fingers is a little thing, 
but united they form the hand with which one 
raises houses and pierces mountains. 


A Child of the Faubourgs. 7 

The habitation of my parents was above that 
of Mother Cauville ; above us were only the 
cats and the sparrows. 

The better part of my time was passed in 
chasing this small game or rambling in the 
faubourg. We were a dozen youngsters, bet- 
ter furnished with appetites than shoes, who 
spent our time together in the streets. Every 
thing afforded us amusement : the snow of 
winter, which was the occasion of great bat- 
tles ; the water in the gutters, which we 
dammed, turning the street into a pond ; the 
meager sods growing upon still unoccupied 
grounds, with which we built forts or mills. In 
these works, as in our childish plays, I was 
neither the strongest nor wisest ; but I hated 
injustice, and this made me the chosen arbiter 
in all quarrels. The condemned party some- 
times revenged the decision of the judge by 
thrashing him ; but, far from giving me a dis- 
taste for my impartiality, the blows confirmed 
it ; it was like the nail well placed, the more 
it is struck the deeper it is driven. 

The same instinct inclined me to do only 
that which I believed permissible and to say 
only that which I knew. I suffered for it more 


8 


A Workman’s Confessions. 


than once, above all in the adventure with the 
chestnut vender. 

He was a peasant who often traversed our 
quarter with a donkey laden with fruit and nuts, 
and stopped at the lodging of a fellow-coun- 
tryman who lived opposite our house. Wine- 
drinking often prolonged his visit, and, grouped 
before the donkey, we regarded his burden 
with envious eyes. One day the temptation 
was too strong. The donkey bore a sack, 
through a hole in which we could see the fine, 
glistening chestnuts, which had the appearance 
of putting themselves at the window to pro- 
voke our greediness. The boldest lad winked 
knowingly, and one proposed enlarging the 
hole. The thing was deliberated ; I was the 
only one to oppose. As the majority made 
the law they proceeded to the execution, 
when I threw myself before the sack, crying 
that no one should touch it. I wished to give 
reasons to support my position, but a fist-blow 
closed my mouth. I struck back, and a gen- 
eral scuffle resulted which was my Waterloo. 
Overwhelmed by numbers, I drew, in my down- 
fall, the sack which I defended, and the peas- 
ant, whom the noise of the strife had attracted. 


A Child of the Faubourgs. 9 

found me under the feet of the donkey in the 
midst of his scattered chestnuts. Seeing my 
adversaries fleeing, he divined what they had 
wished to do, took me for their accomplice, 
and, without more enlightenment, set himself 
to punishing me for the theft which I had pre- 
vented. I protested in vain ; the vender be- 
lieved that he avenged his merchandise, and 
had, otherwise, drunk too much to understand. 
I escaped from his hands bruised, bloody, and 
furious. 

My. companions did not fail to rail at my 
scruples so badly recompensed ; but I had an 
obstinate will ; instead of being discouraged I 
became still more set in my way. After all, if 
my bruises were painful they did not make me 
ashamed, and the mockers at my conduct es- 
teemed me for it. This confirmed me. I have 
often thought since that in beating me the 
chestnut man had rendered me, without know- 
ing it, the service of a friend. Not alone had 
he instructed me that it is necessary to do good 
for the good, not for the recompense, but he 
had also furnished the occasion for showing a 
character. I there began, thanks to him, a 
reputation which later I wished to continue ; 


lO 


A Workman’s Confessions. 


for if good renown is a recompense it is also 
a check ; the good which others think of us 
obliges us more often to merit it. 

Aside from honesty I had, for the rest, all 
the defects of a street education. No one took 
care for me, and I grew, like the way-side herbs, 
by the grace of God. My mother was occu- 
pied all the day with the care of housekeeping, 
and my father entered the home only in the 
evening after work. I was for both only a 
mouth the more to feed. They wished to see 
me live and not to suffer ; their foresight went 
no further; it was their manner of loving. 
Want, which always kept near the threshold, 
sometimes pushed the door and entered, but I 
do not recall having felt it. When the bread 
was short they at first considered my hunger ; 
father and mother lived from the rest as they 
could. 

Another recollection of the same period is 
that of our Sunday walks outside the Bar- 
rier. We used to go and sit in some great hall 
full of people who drank noisily and who often 
came to blows. I recall still the efforts of my 
mother and myself to binder my father from 
taking part in these quarrels. We often took 


A Child of the Faubourgs. 


II 


him away disfigured, and always with great 
trouble ; so these were for me days of torture 
and fright. One circumstance had rendered 
them still more odious. I had a little sister 
named Henriette, a blonde little creature as 
large as your fist, who slept near me in an 
osier cradle. I was fond of this innocent 
being, who laughed on seeing me and ex- 
tended its little arms. The Sunday visits be- 
yond the Barrier displeased her still more than 
me ; her cries irritated my father, who often 
gave way to maledictions against her. One 
day, weary of her tears, he wished to take her ; 
but he was already slightly drunk ; the baby 
slipped from his hands and fell head-first. As 
we returned they gave her to me to carry. My 
father rejoiced in having quieted her, and I, 
who felt her head balancing upon my shoulder, 
believed she slept. Yet every now and then 
she uttered a feeble plaint. Reaching home, 
they put her in bed, and every body slept ; but 
the next day I was awakened by loud cries. 
My mother held Henriette upon her knees, 
while my father regarded them with crossed 
arms and lowered head. Little sister had died 
during the night. Without well comprehend- 


12 


A Workman’s Confessions. 


ing then what had made her die, I connected 
her death with our walks outside the Barrier, 
and this made me hate them still more. After 
an interruption of some weeks my father 
wished to resume them, but my mother refused 
to follow him, and I was thus delivered. 

I was ten years old, and yet no one had 
thought of giving me any schooling. In this 
the indifference of my parents was supported 
by the' counsels of Mauricet. Mauricet had 
always been the best frie'nd of my family. A 
mason, like my father, and from the same 
province, he had, beyond the influence which 
old relations give, that which results from a 
probity without stain, from a proved capacity, 
and from his well-to-do condition acquired by 
order and work. They repeated at our house, 
“ Mauricet has said it,’* as the lawyers repeat, 
“ It is the law.” Now Mauricet had a horror 
of the printed letter, 

“ What good is it to twist your son in the 
alphabet ? ” he often said to my father. “ Have 
I had need of the black book of the schools to 
make my way ? It is neither the pen nor the 
inkstand, it is the trowel and the mortar-bed, 
which make the good workman. Wait two 


A Child of the Faubourgs. 13 

years more ; then you shall give Peter Henry 
to me, and, if the devil doesn’t interfere, we 
shall make him take well to the ashlar and the 
mortar.” 

My father highly approved ; in regard to 
my mother, she had preferred putting me at 
school in the hope of seeing me with the little 
silver cross which the best scholars wore ; yet 
she renounced without much trouble the pride 
of making me learned ; and I should still 
know how neither to read nor write if the 
good God had not himself interfered in the 
matter. 


14 


A Workman’s Confessions. 


CHAPTER II. 

THE LITTLE SILVER CROSS. 

O UR friend Mauricet not only worked for 
others as master-journeyman, but for 
some time he had attempted little enterprises 
on his own account which had brought him 
not a little money and stimulated him to fur- 
ther ventures. Some one spoke to him of a 
job of masonry for a citizen of Versailles who 
had before employed him. He mentioned 
it at our house, and my mother counseled him 
to write to the man ; but Mauricet had a de- 
cided repugnance for correspondence ; he de- 
clared that he would like better to wait until 
Sunday and then go afoot to Versailles to 
settle the business. Unhappily, another was 
more diligent ; when he returned to us the 
Monday following he informed us that the 
man had signed the contract the evening be- 
fore his visit. He regretted that Mauricet 
came too late, as he would have accorded the 
preference to him. It was a profit of some 


The Little Silver Cross. 15 

hundreds of francs lost because of the lack 
of a letter. The master-journeyman detested 
paper and ink only the more, which, according 
to him, always gave the advantage to the in- 
triguers over the good workmen. Of course, 
it is understood that in the eyes of Mauricet 
the good workman was he who knew how 
neither to read nor write. 

But my mother drew from the accident al- 
together another lesson ; she concluded that 
it was good even for a workman to know how 
to put “ the black upon the white,” and she 
spoke of sending me to school. My father, 
who had not thought about the matter at all, 
made no opposition. A whole year passed 
without my taking either to reading or writing. 
I always had in my mind what I had heard 
Father Mauricet say, and I considered the in- 
struction of the school as a luxury of which, so 
far as I was concerned, I could have no need. 
It was necessary for me to value it to under- 
stand what service it could be. 

We were then, if I recollect rightly, in the 
year 1806. One evening at the letting out of 
school I saw twenty workmen standing before 
a great placard pasted to a wall. One of them 


i6 A Workman’s Confessions. 

tried to spell it out, but without the ability to 
decipher even the title. We had among us a 
little hunchback named Pierrot, who was the 
wisest of the school and who read books as 
readily as the others could play upon the 
sabot. Seeing the silver cross with the tri- 
colored ribbon which he wore upon his breast, 
the workmen called him. One of them took 
him in his arms so that he could see the 
placard. He set himself to reading it in his 
little, bird-like voice : 

“ Bulletin of the French Army. 

Victory over the Prussians at JenaP 

It was a recital of the battle, with the his- 
tory of the five French battalions which the 
Prussians had not been able to cut through 
and of the five Prussian battalions which the 
French cavalry had scattered like a skein 
of flax. Pierrot read this with* as proud an 
air as if he had been general-in-chief, and 
the workmen with their eyes fixed upon him 
drank in his words. When he stopped the 
more hurried cried, ‘^Next! Next!^’ and the 
others replied, “ Give him time ; he must at 
least catch his breath. The little citizen reads 


The Little Silver Cross. 17 

well ! Come, my jewel, you were at the charge 
of Marshal Davoust ! ” And all were quiet 
again to hear Pierrot. 

The reading finished, other passers arrived. 
The little hunchback was obliged to begin 
over again. Of him who had habitually been 
treated with mockery every body now spoke 
with consideration ; one would have said that 
he was of some account for the glorious news 
that he had made known. Every one was 
obliged to him ; they addressed him caressing 
and encouraging words, while on us they im- 
posed silence and kicks ; the hunchback had 
become king to all of us. 

This impressed me as the adventure of 
Mauricet had impressed my mother. Without 
reasoning the thing, I felt that it was good 
sometimes to know. The little triumph of 
Pierrot had given me the taste for the black 
letter. I cannot say that I took a resolution, 
but from the next day I became more attent- 
ive to the lessons. Some eulogies of M. 
Saurin, my master, encouraged this good dis- 
position and my first progress served to give 
me courage. 

At the end of the second year I knew how 
2 


1 8 A Workman’s Confessions. 

to read and write. M. Saurin began to give 
me lessons in arithmetic. These lessons were 
only accorded to the favorite scholars. They 
took them in a certain little room where there 
was a blackboard, upon which M. Saurin gave 
his demonstrations. The uninitiated were 
forbidden to approach this sanctuary. The 
room with the blackboard was for them like 
Bluebeard’s chamber. M. Saurin taught us 
the four rules with as much solemnity as if he 
had instructed us how to make gold, and per- 
haps, after all, he made us understand a science 
as precious. I have often thought that the 
knowledge of arithmetic was the greatest gift 
which one man could make another. Intel- 
ligence is very much, love of work much more, 
perseverance still more ; but without arith- 
metic all that is like a tool which strikes in 
the empty air. To calculate is to find the 
connection there is between effort and result — 
that is to say, between cause and effect. 
He who does not calculate goes by chance : 
in advance he does not know if he takes the 
best way ; afterward he is ignorant if he has 
taken it. Arithmetic is in industrial things 
like conscience in things moral ; it is only after 


The Little Silver Cross. 19 

one has consulted it that he can see clearly 
and feel easy. Experience has many times 
proved to me this which I say, both for others 
and for myself. 

Thanks to the lessons of M. Saurin, I was 
very soon able to cipher and to resolve all the 
questions which he placed upon the black- 
board. After the departure of Pierrot I was 
at the head of the class ; the little silver cross 
no more quitted my patched vest. I had done 
like Napoleon, I was passed emperor for all 
time to come. 


20 A Workman’s Confessions. 


CHAPTER III. 

WIDOW AND ORPHAN. 

NE winter evening M. Saurin kept me 



later than usual to solve problems ; I 
did not return home until after nightfall. On 
arriving I found the door closed ! It was the 
hour that my father habitually returned and 
when my mother prepared the supper. I 
could not comprehend what had become of 
them ; I sat down on the stairs to wait. 

I was there some time when Rose, descend- 
ing, perceived me. I asked her if she knew 
why our door was closed ; but instead of re- 
sponding to me she remounted with a fright- 
ened look, and I heard her cry on re-enter- 
ing her apartment, “Peter Henry is there.” 
Some reply was made, then there were hur- 
ried whisperings ; finally Mother Cauville ap- 
peared at the top of the stairs and invited me 
in a very friendly voice to come up to her 
room. She was just sitting down at table 
with her children, and wished me to partake of 


Widow and Orphan. 21 

their supper. I said that I would wait for my 
mother. 

“ She has gone out — on business/' said the 
widow, with a hesitating air ; ‘‘ very likely 
she will not return soon. Eat and drink, my 
poor Peter; this you will be sure of." 

I took a place near Rose ; every body kept 
silence save Mother Cauville, who pressed me 
to eat ; but, without knowing why, I had a 
pang at the heart. I kept listening to hear 
any one who might come up the stair-way, and 
I looked every moment toward the door. 

The meal ended, they gave me a chair near 
the fire ; the Cauvilles stood around me, but 
said nothing. This silence, these cares, fin- 
ished by frightening me ; I got up crying that 
I wished to see my mother. 

“ Wait, she will come back/’ said the widow. 

I asked where she was. 

“ Well, then," resumed Mother Cauville, 
she is at the hospital." 

“ Is she sick, then ? " 

“ No ; she has gone with your father, who 
has had an accident at the building-yard." 

I declared that I wished to rejoin them, 
but the vegetable-seller opposed me. She 


22 


A Workman’s Confessions. 


pretended ignorance of which hospital the 
wounded man had been carried to, and argued, 
besides, that they would not admit me. I was 
obliged then to wait. My heart seemed as if 
in a vise, and I choked. Every body else seemed 
affected in the same way. We were seated 
around the fire, which crackled softly; outside 
might be heard the rain and the cold wind 
rattling upon the dilapidated roof of the old 
house. At this moment a dog set to barking 
toward the open fields of Pantin, and, with- 
out knowing why, I began to weep. Mother 
Cauville let me alone, saying nothing, as if 
she did not wish to give me hope in consol- 
ing me. 

Finally, late in the evening, we heard heavy 
steps upon the stairs. The neighbor and her 
children ran to the door. I got up trembling 
and looked toward the entrance ; my mother 
appeared. She was dripping with rain. Her 
face, spotted with mud and blood, had an ex- 
pression which I had never seen. She advanced 
as far as the hearth without saying any thing 
and fell upon a chair. We could see that she 
wished to speak, for her lips moved, but with- 
out utterance. 


Widow and Orphan. 


23 


I threw myself against her and pressed her 
in my arms. The vegetable-seller finally asked 
her for news of Jerome. 

“ Well, then, I have told you,” stammered 
my mother, in a voice almost unintelligible, 
“ the doctor told us immediately — he only 
had time to recognize me — he gave me his 
watch — and then — all was over ! ” 

The neighbor wrung her hands ; her chil- 
dren looked at each other; as for me, I had 
not well comprehended ; I began crying that 
I wished to go to the hospital where my father 
was. At this demand the poor woman straight- 
ened herself and, seizing me with both hands, 
shook me with a kind of insane anger. 

“Your father! unhappy pne ! ” she said, 
“but you have one no more! Understand 
well, you have one no more! 

I looked at her with fright ; this idea could 
not enter my mind ; I continued to repeat 
that I wished to see my father. 

“ Do you not understand, then, that he is 
dead.^” interrupted Mother Cauville, harshly. 

This enlightened me. I had seen my little 
sister ; I knew what death was. This word 
connected itself in my memory with many 


24 A Workman’s Confessions. 

frightful images — a winding-sheet, a nail-stud- 
ded coffin, a hole dug in the earth ! I began 
crying and sobbing. They drew me from my 
mother and led me to our lodging. 

I recall nothing that followed. When I 
saw my mother the next day she was in bed ; 
she seemed to me better than the evening be- 
fore, because her paleness had left her; they 
told me that she had the fever. Friend Mau- 
ricet came during the day to see her; but they 
sent me away while he talked with her. The 
next day he returned, seeking me for the burial. 
I had on my best clothes, and they attached 
a black crape to my hat. There were no 
more than six or eight to follow the hearse, 
which surprised me. My father was put into 
the public grave-yard. Mauricet immediately 
bought a wooden cross, which he planted him- 
self at the place where they had buried him. 
I returned with red eyes, but with a heart al- 
ready solaced. I was like most children, with 
whom grief does not last long. 

On leaving the cemetery Friend Mauricet re- 
turned with me to my mother’s dwelling. At 
sight of us she burst into tears, for our return 
announced to her that her companion of twenty 


Widow and Orphan. 


25 

years was forever gone ; but Mauricet was dis- 
pleased. 

“ Now, Madeleine,” said he, with a gruffness 
through which one felt the friendship, “ this is 
not reasonable of you. Jerome is, like you, 
where the good God has put him ! Each one 
has his duty to do — he to repose and you to 
work and take courage. Here is a poor lad 
who has need of you ; see if he is not another 
Jerome; he resembles him already as one sou 
another.” 

He had pushed me toward my mother, who 
embraced me, sobbing. 

“ Enough,” he resumed, drawing me away 
at the end of some minutes; wipe your eyes. 
Come, close the fountain of your heart. You 
are a brave one, my widow ; the question is to 
prove it. What do you propose to do now ? 
Let us speak of this ; it is the most pressing?” 

My mother replied that she knew of noth- 
ing, that she did not see any means of living, 
that nothing was left to her but begging at the 
doors. 

“ Don’t say such stupidities ! ” exclaimed 
Mauricet, disapprovingly. “ Is this an idea 
which ought to come to the widow of a work- 


26 


A Workman’s Confessions. 


man ? If you have hands to beg you have 
them as well to work, perhaps ! One cannot 
believe that you fear work, you whom I al- 
ways cite to my daughter and wife. Does any 
one know better how to economize ? Is there 
a better laundress in the quarter? But is it 
necessary for me to recall to you the ability of 
your fingers ? ” 

These praises raised the spirits of my mother 
a little, who consented to seek with Mauri- 
cet for something to do. The mason already 
had his plans, which he made her accept with 
the air of leaving the honor to the widow. 

It was agreed that she should set up a lodg- 
ing-house for young men, while I entered a 
certain building-yard as mason’s helper. 
Mauricet promised to watch over all, and if, in 
the beginning, the profits did not suffice, he 
engaged himself, in his slang .of the faubourg, 
“ to put a little butter in the spinach.” 


On Holy Monday. 


27 


CHAPTER IV. 

ON HOLY MONDAY. 

T N making me accept the place of mason's 
^ helper Father Mauricet said to me : 

“ You have made a beginning, Peter Henry; 
be a truly good helper if you wish some day 
to become a true workman. In our trade, you 
see, it is as in the fashionable world ; the best 
valets make the best masters. Go ahead, 
then, and if some journeyman hustles you, ac- 
cept the thing in good part ; at your age the 
shame is not in receiving a kick, but of merit- 
ing it." 

The recommendation was not useless, con- 
sidering the manners and usages of the trade. 
In all times the mason has had the right of 
treating his helper paternally — that is to say, 
of thrashing him for his education. I was put 
at the orders of a Limousin, who had kept, in 
this regard, the old traditions. At the least 
awkwardness the blows rained upon me with a 
stream of maledictions like the thunder and 


28 A Workman’s Confessions. 

showers of April. I was at first stunned ; but 
I set myself quickly to understand the work 
and soon “served with precision,” as Friend 
Mauricet said. 

At the end of a month I was the best helper 
in the stone-yard. The Limousin was just 
enough not to hold ill-will against me. He 
continued to punish me upon occasion for 
my awkwardness, but without seeking pre- 
texts ; the man was brutal and not wicked. 
His severity seemed to him a right, and he 
struck the helper who erred as the judge ap- 
plies the law, without hate against the con- 
demned. 

Although a little rough, my new trade did 
not displease me. It permitted me to display 
my strength and agility. Mauricet did not 
fail to remark them, and they soon gave me a 
reputation among the journeymen. I applied 
myself to sustain it with redoubled zeal. Good 
fame is, at the same time, a recompense and 
a chain ; if it profits one it pledges him ; it is 
like advance- money received from the pub- 
lic, and which obliges one to do his duty. I 
had succeeded in obtaining the good-will of 
all the workmen in the yard by my good-will. 


On Holy Monday. 


29 


This enabled me to learn the trade more rap- 
idly and with less effort than many of my fel- 
lows, some of whom never came to know it at 
all. The lessons which were refused them, and 
which they were obliged, so to speak, to steal, 
were giv^en to me with readiness. I became 
the student of all the journeymen ; each one 
of therh made it a point of honor to teach me 
something. They permitted me to attempt 
the easier work and directed my efforts. 
Mauricet, especially, always had an eye upon 
me ; he spared neither counsel nor encourage- 
ment. 

“ You see, Peter Henry,” he repeated to me 
continually, “a mason is like a soldier; he 
should do honor to the regiment of the trowel. 
The architect is our general — he makes the 
plan of ihe battle; but it is for us to gain it 
in bravely working the mortar and the stone, 
as the troopers over there in Germany work 
the enemy. The true workman thinks not 
alone of his account at the baker’s. He loves 
the work of his hands ; it is his glory. I have 
never placed the cap-sheaf upon a gable with- 
out feeling something. The houses in which 
I have had a hand become, as one might say. 


30 A Workman’s Confessions. 

my children ; when I see them they rejoice my 
eyes ; it seems to me that the tenants are a 
little obliged to me, and I am interested in 
them. When I speak of this there are those 
who sneer and regard me as an antediluvian ; 
but the good workmen comprehend me and 
agree with my sentiment. Believe me, also, 
little one, if you wish to have your place 
among the best fellows, put heart in the han- 
dle of your trowel. It is only this which can 
make the master-journeyman.” 

These encouragements and my ambition so 
much hastened my progress that I found my- 
self prepared to take the rank of workman at an 
age when one generally becomes an apprentice. 
Such success made me giddy; raised too soon 
from the dependence which until then I had 
endured, I abused an authority which I had 
not learned how to exercise. My helper was 
the worst-treated in the yard. Mauricet 
warned me two or three times. 

“Take care, youngster,” he said, with his 
customary familiarity ; “ you have yet only 
milk teeth; if you bite too hard you will 
break them ! ” 

His prophecy was fulfilled to the letter, for 


On Holy Monday. 


31 


one fine day my servant, tired of my bad 
treatment, rebelled in earnest and served me 
like the plaster which he had the habit of pre- 
paring. I carried more than a month the 
marks of this correction, too well merited, and 
which profited me. Straightened upon this 
side, I let myself fall upon another. 

Some of the journeymen of the stone-yard 
devoutly kept “ Holy Monday,” and had tried 
many times to lead me with them. I resisted, 
at first, without much trouble. Recollections 
of the Barrier could not make me laugh. They 
attacked me with railleries ; they declared that I 
feared being whipped by my mother, that I was 
not yet weaned, and that the brandy burned 
my throat. These silly sayings piqued me. 
I wished to prove that I was no longer a child 
by conducting myself badly as a man. Drawn 
outside the Barrier the next pay-day, and sup- 
plied with the wages of a fortnight, I remained 
there until all of it had passed from my own 
pocket into the wine-seller’s drawer. 

Sunday and Monday had been employed in 
this long debauch. I returned home the even- 
ing of the second day without hat, covered 
with mud, and my body bruised by all the 


32 A Workman’s Confessions. 

walls of the faubourg. My mother, ignorant 
of what had happened, believed me wounded 
or dead ; she had sought me at the morgue at 
first, then at the hospital. I found her with 
Mauricet, who was trying to re-assure her. 
The sight of me eased her inquietude, but not 
her pain. After the first joy of recovering me 
came the grief of seeing me in such a state. 
Reproaches succeeded the lamentations. I was 
so inebriated that I scarcely heard and failed 
to comprehend. The tone alone informed me 
that I was being reproved. Like most intoxi- 
cated persons, I was in a glorious mood, and 
regarded myself for a quarter of an hour as 
one of the kings of the world. I answered 
by imposing silence on the good woman, and 
declaring that I should henceforth live after 
my own inclinations. My mother raised her 
voice, I shouted louder yet, and the quarrel 
grew bitter, when Father Mauricet put a stop 
to it. He declared it was not a time to talk, 
and made me go to bed without any remark. 
I slept soundly until the next day. 

When I opened my eyes in the morning I 
recalled all that had passed, and I felt a little 
shame, mingled with much embarrassment. 


On Holy Monday. 33 

However, self-conceit hindered my repentance. 
After all, I was master of the money gained 
by my work ; I could dispose of my time ; no 
one had any right to gainsay it, and I resolved 
to cut short all remarks. 

The thought of my mother alone disturbed 
me. Wishing to avoid her reproaches, I got 
up quietly and left without seeing her. 

When I arrived at the stone-yard I found 
the others already at work ; but they appeared 
not to notice me. I set to work in bad enough 
humor, but with nonchalance. These two 
days of debauch had taken away from me all 
taste for my trade. Besides, I felt an inward 
humiliation which I hid under an air of bra- 
vadô. I listened to what the other workmen 
said, always fearing to hear some joke or some 
unpleasant judgment on my account. When 
the contractor arrived I feigned not seeing 
him, and I avoided speaking to him for fear he 
would ask the cause of my absence the day 
before. I had lost that good conscience which 
had hitherto made me look the world fear- 
lessly in the face. I felt in my life now a rec- 
ollection to hide. 

Those who had accompanied me to the 
3 


34 A Workman’s Confessions. 

Barrier had not yet returned ; the contractor 
remarked it. 

** It is an infirmity which they have,” said 
the wag of the yard. “When they work, by 
chance, they swallow so much plaster that at 
least three days are required to rinse their 
throats with wine.” 

All the journeymen set to laughing ; but it 
seemed to me that there was in this laugh a 
sort of scorn. I reddened, involuntarily, as if 
the pleasantry had been made for me. New 
to the experience, I still felt scruples and re- 
morse. 

The day passed sadly enough. The sort of 
ill-feeling which affected all my members was 
communicated to my spirit. I was tired, in- 
side and out. / 

While we worked Father Mauricet did not 
say a word to me ; but at the hour of going 
home he came to me and said that we would 
go together. As he lodged at the other end 
of Paris I asked him if he had any business in 
our quarter. 

“ We shall see,” he briefly responded. 

I wished to follow my ordinary road ; but 
he took me by other streets without saying 


On Holy Monday. 


35 


why, until we had reached a certain house in 
the Faubourg St. Martin ; there he stopped. 

Do you see the high chimney which rises 
over the gable of this house, and which I call 
Jerome’s chimney? It is there that your 
father was killed ! ” 

I trembled violently, and looked at the fatal 
chimney with a kind of horror mixed with 
anger. 

Ah ! it was there,” I repeated in a tremu- 
lous voice. “You were there, Father Mauri- 
cet?” 

“ I was there.” 

“ And how did the thing happen ? ” 

“Not by the fault of the building, nor by 
the fault of the trade,” replied Mauricet. 
“ The scaffold was well-established, the work 
without danger ; but your father had come 
there on leaving the Barrier. His sight was 
bleared, his legs unsteady ; he mistook empty 
space for a plank, and he was killed without 
excuse.” 

I felt the blood mount to my face and my 
heart beat violently. 

“ Father Jerome had been a good work- 
man,” resumed Mauricet, “ if the love of drink 


36 A Workman’s Confessions. 

had not undone him. Because of long sit- 
ting at the wine-seller’s he had weakened his 
strength, his skill, and his mind. But, bah! 
one only lives once, as some one says ; it is 
necessary to amuse one’s self before his burial. 
If the widows and the orphans are hungry 
and cold afterward they can go to the Bureau 
of Charity and blow upon their fingers. Say, 
is this not your opinion ? ” 

Then he began to sing a Bacchic refrain in 
vogue at the time : 

“ Let us fill ourselves with good drink. 

When one knows good wine he knows all.” 

I was humiliated, confused, and I did not 
know what to say. I well felt that Mauricet 
did not speak seriously. But to approve him’ 
made me ashamed ; to contradict him was to 
condemn myself. I lowered my head without 
saying any thing. Yet he continued to gaze at 
this cursed gable. 

“ Poor Jerome ! ” resumed Mauricet, chang- 
ing his voice to a tenderer tone ; “ if he had 
not followed bad examples when he was young 
we should still have him with us. Madeleine 
would rest her old body, and you — you would 


On Holy Monday. 


37 


have had some one to show you the way. But 
no, there is nothing left of him, not even a 
good memory, for one regrets only the good 
workmen. When the wretched man was 
crushed upon the pavement do you know what 
the sub-contractor said ? * One more drunkard 
the less ! Take him away and sweep the 
walk.’” 

I could not restrain a movement of indigna- 
tion. 

Well, he was a hard one,” continued Mau- 
ricet. “ He esteemed men only for what they 
were worth. If death had taken a good work- 
man he would have said, * This is a pity ! ’ After 
all, at the bottom every one felt like him, and 
the proof is the number of friends who followed 
the body of Jerome to the grave. Those with 
whom he had caroused turned their backs 
upon him when he was in his coffin ; for these 
worthless fellows, you see, while they associate 
together do not love each other.” 

I listened, meantime, without replying. We 
had resumed our walk. At the first crossing 
Mauricet stopped, and, pointing to the chim- 
ney which stood high above the roofs, When 
you wish to resume your life of yesterday,” he 


38 A Workman’s Confessions. 

said, “ look at it first from this side, and the 
wine which you drink shall taste of blood ! ” 

He went his way and left me filled with 
distress. 

I re-entered my mother’s house much troub- 
led, without wishing to appear so. I struggled 
against the lesson which I had received. I re- 
volted internally against feeling so shaken. I 
swore silently not to recede, and to continue to 
lead a jovial life. I sought all the more to for- 
tify myself in my impenitence that I expected 
the reproaches of Madeleine. Prepared to cut 
them short by a declaration of independence, I 
entered our poor dwelling with a high head and 
a deliberate step. 

Mother had the supper-table ready and re- 
ceived me as usual. This kindness disconcerted 
all my resolutions. I felt myself so much dis- 
tressed with the consciousness of my fault that 
if I had not made an effort I should have wept. 
My mother had the air of seeing nothing. (I 
have since learned that Mauricet gave her the 
lesson.) She also talked cheerfully, as was her 
custom, not speaking of the fortnight’s wages 
which I had appropriated for the first time, and 
appearing not at all disturbed. I went to bed 


On Holy Monday. 


39 


completely disarmed, and my heart stung with 
remorse. All night long I dreamed I saw my 
father tottering on the scaffold or being crushed 
on the pavement. I found myself intoxicated 
high up upon a cornice, suspended in mid-air 
and about to fall. When I got up the next day 
my head was heavy and all my limbs ached. 

However, I began working at the ordinary 
hour. It was another bad day. I was less 
stunned than the day before, but more sad. To 
embarrassment had succeeded regret. It was 
nearly a week before I regained my accustomed 
vigor and spirits. The first time that Mauricet 
heard me singing he passed near me and, slap- 
ping me on the shoulder, “ Contentment has 
returned to the house,’* he said to me. “ That 
is right, laddie. Guard well the bird there.” 

“ Fear nothing,” I responded, laughing ; “ we 
shall make him a pretty cage where he shall 
find something to eat.” 

‘‘ See, above all, that he shall not have too 
much to drink,” replied Mauricet. 

We exchanged looks, and he passed, whis- 
tling. 

Thirty-three years have gone by since that 
day, and I have never forgotten the promise 


40 A Workman's Confessions. 

which I then made to myself. Exposed to all 
the temptations of intemperance, I have fin- 
ished by no more caring for them. In the 
good, as well as in the bad, it is the first steps 
which decide the road. A habit is sometimes 
impossible to vanquish, but nearly always easy 
to avoid. 


Mother Madeleine. 41 


CHAPTER V. 

MOTHER MADELEINE. 

OINCE I had earned journeyman’s wages 
^ my home had become more comfortable. 
We had been able to return to our old lodging. 
The furnishings which it became necessary to 
sell at my father’s death had been replaced. 
We had decidedly risen in life, and the neigh- 
bors already looked upon us as rich. 

All went well until the time when my mother 
began to complain of her eye-sight, which had 
decreased, little by little, without the dear 
woman’s noticing it, or, rather, without wish- 
ing to confess it to herself. She always had a 
pretext. To-day it was the smoke, to-morrow 
the mist, the day following a catarrh in the 
head. It was not until after ten years that she 
bethought herself that her eyes were at fault. 
She no longer distinguished minute objects ; 
it was necessary to give up the knife. I began 
to be disturbed. Mauricet, with whom I coun- 
seled, proposed consulting an oculist for whom. 


42 A Workman’s Confessions. 

he had worked and with whom he was ac- 
quainted. 

We had great trouble to persuade my mother, 
who, never having been sick, would not believe 
in doctors. At last, however, she consented. 

The oculist was a man of middle age, tall, 
thin, and superbly calm. He looked at the 
eyes of my mother, said not a word, and wrote 
a prescription which he gave to me. I very 
much wished a word to re-assure me ; but as 
others were waiting their turn I dared say 
nothing, and we were obliged to leave as we 
had come. Yet at the door I perceived that 
Mauricet had not followed. More bold with 
the oculist, he had stopped without doubt to 
question him. We waited for him some min- 
utes at the bottom of the staircase, where he 
at last rejoined us. 

Well, then, what did your charlatan say.^” 
asked my mother, who could not pardon the 
doctor his silent coldness. 

“ He orders you to eat roast meat and to 
sleep upon both ears,” responded Mauricet. 

But is he sure of the cure?” I demanded. 

Has he not given you a paper? ” replied 
the mason. 


Mother Madeleine. 


43 


Here it is." 

** Then do what he has written there and let 
the water run under the Pont Neuf.” 

The accent of Mauricet had a brevity about 
it which struck me ; but I could say nothing at 
the moment. He took the arm of the dear 
woman, to whom he told a hundred stories on 
the way. Never had I seen him so talkative. 
However, when we had reached home I drew 
him aside to say that I wished to speak to him. 

“ I also," he replied, in a low voice. “ When 
I go out follow me.” 

My mother had already resumed her duties 
about the house. Mauricet did not delay his 
leave-taking, and I followed him. 

As we descended the stairs I uneasily de- 
manded of him what he wished to say to me. 

Wait until we are in the street," he replied. 

Arriving there, he walked a few steps without 
speaking. I could wait no longer. 

“ In the name of God, Mauricet, what did 
the oculist say to you?” I demanded, with 
anguish. 

He turned toward me. 

“What did he say to me? Your doubts are 
well founded,” he resumed, quickly. “ He 


44 A Workman’s Confessions. 

believes that Mother Madeleine will become 
blind." 

I cried out; but he continued, almost as if 
in anger : 

** Come, come ! the question is not of excla- 
mations. Let us talk quietly, like men.” 

“ Blind Î ” I repeated ; ‘‘ and what will become 
of her? How shall I find her a companion? 
Who will care for her ? ” 

Ah, see here,” said Mauricet ; “ it is clear 
that something must be done, and that is why 
I have spoken of the thing. A blind old woman 
will be a heavy burden for a young man. It is 
for you to see if you find it too heavy." 

I looked at him with a questioning air. 

Well, yes, yes," he continued, in response 
to my look ; “ you can discharge yourself from it 
if you are so disposed. There are retreats for 
poor, incurable people." 

“ Where is that ?" 

“ At the hospital." 

“ Do you want me to put my mother with 
the beggars ?” I exclaimed. 

** Parbleu ! Are you going to play the sen- 
ator?" said Mauricet, without regarding me. 
** Those higher up than Madeleine go there— 


Mother Madeleine. 45 

true ladies who have had servants and car- 
riages.” ^ 

“ Then it is because they do not have sons.” 

“ That may or may not be,” continued the 
mason, shrugging his shoulders. “ Sons are 
under no more obligations than mothers, and 
there are not a few who carry their babes to 
the foundling asylum.” 

“But it isn't mine,” I interrupted, quickly. 
“ Mine carried me in her arms while I was 
little. She nourished me with her milk and 
wkh her bread. I have grown like a vine 
against the wall of her love ; and now that the 
wall has cracks shall I let another sustain it ? 
No, no. Father Mauricet, you cannot have be- 
lieved that. If the good woman truly loses her 
sight, well, there remains mine. Between the' 
two there will only be an eye apiece ; but, in 
fault of better, we will be content.” 

“You say this from the heart,” observed 
Mauricet ; “ but it is necessary to reflect with 
coolness. Consider that it is a clog which you 
rivet to your feet. Good-bye liberty, the econ- 
omies, marriage even, for it will be a long time 
before you can earn enough to undertake a 
family with such a cipher.” 


46 A Workman’s Confessions. 

A cipher ! ” I repeated, scandalized. “ You 
deceive yourself, Mauricet. She will give me 
contentment and courage. When I was born 
I was also a cipher for the poor creature, and 
yet she received me willingly. Be very sure 
that I know to what I engage myself, and that 
I have not my head in my heart, as you appear 
to believe. I find the trial hard, and I would 
have wished not to support it ; but, since it has 
come, let God punish me if I fail to do my duty 
to the end ! ” 

Here Mauricet, who had not yet looked at 
me, turned quickly and took me by both 
hands. 

** You are a truly good workman !” he cried, 
with a brightening face. “ I wished to see 
what was in you and if the foundations were 
solid. Now I am content. Away with the 
sham ! Let us talk with open hearts.” 

** But did the oculist really think that there 
was no remedy?” I asked. 

‘‘That is his opinion,” replied Mauricet. 
“Yet, as I left him, he said that perhaps there 
was hope of delaying the evil if the good 
woman could live in the country and take the 
air at will, with the verdure under her eyes.” 


Mother Madeleine. 47 

I interrupted him, saying I would send her 
there. 

“That will be difficult,” objected Mauricet ; 
“ in living separately your expenses will be 
almost doubled, and I fear that the cords 
of your purse are not as long as your good 
wishes.” 

But the uncertain hope given by the doc- 
tor preoccupied me above all. I sought with 
Mauricet some way of trying this last possi- 
bility. I finally recalled a countrywoman, 
Mother Riviou, living near Lonjumeau, with 
whom Madeleine could find, perhaps, without 
much expense, the life and the care which she 
needed. I wrote her and received the response 
which we desired. 

It remained to make the invalid herself con- 
sent. For this it was necessary for Mauricet 
to support my prayers with all his eloquence. 
The dear woman regarded her sojourn in the 
country as an exile ; she wished to think about 
it. At last, however, she yielded, and I went 
myself to take her. 

Mother Riviou received us as old acquaint- 
ances. Never a braver woman had eaten the 
bread of the good God. She comprehended 


4S' A Workman’s Confessions. 

at once the character of her new boarder and 
promised me to make her contented. 

“ We pass so much of our life in the fields,” 
she said to me, “ that the house shall belong 
to your mother; she will be able to guide her- 
self as one leads his donkey by bridle and 
halter. . We have too much to do to quarrel 
with anyone’s fancies; here each one loves 
his repose ; what one does disturbs no one 
else. In a month I shall have a young girl 
who will keep the good woman company and 
aid her in the housekeeping. She is a true 
shepherd’s dog, who shall obey your mother’s 
every motion and look; so that she cannot 
help being pleased among us if the evil oné 
doesn’t interfere.” I left, completely re-assured.' 

However, the absence of my mother changed 
everything for me. Now I was alone, obliged 
to eat at the wine-seller’s and to lodge with 
others. Not having the habits of the other 
journeymen, I hardly knew what to do with 
my Sundays and evenings. Mauricet noticed 
that I appeared sad. 

“ Take care,” he said to me ; “ it is possible 
to get good out of all situations. I have been 
through the experience, my boy, and I know 


Mother Madeleine. 


49 


what it is to camp in this way. At the be- 
ginning one is perplexed, then wearied. One 
would like better to lie on straw than between 
sheets with every body ; but it is an appren- 
ticeship. Look out that you do not fall into 
evil, abandoned to yourself and obliged to 
look out for your own interests. Living al- 
ways with a mother, one is never weaned. 
When we are little and the good God gives 
them to us he does us a favor; but when we 
are become men and are separated from them 
for a time he also renders us a service. If 
Madeleine had not gone you would never have 
known how to sew on your suspender but- 
tons.” 

I felt the truth of what he said ; but I found 
this new apprenticeship quite as hard as that 
to which I had submitted for a trade. I began 
to comprehend that it was more difficult to be 
a man than to become a workman. 

The chamber where I lodged had a dozen 
beds, occupied by the journeymen belonging 
to the different building trades, such as masons, 
carpenters, painters, and locksmiths. Among 
them was a native of Auvergne, already upon 

the down-hill side of life, whom they called 
4 


50 


A Workman's Confessions. 


Marcotte, and who had formerly worked in 
our stone-yard. He was a quiet man, always 
at work without being a great workman, and 
he spoke only when he was obliged to. Mar- 
cotte lived on nuts and radishes, according to 
the season, and sent all his wages to the coun- 
try to buy land. He already owned ten acres, 
and waited until he could make them twelve 
to retire upon his domain. Then he would 
build himself a house, keep two Cows and a 
horse, and be a farmer. 

This project, followed from the age of twelve 
years, was almost accomplished ; a few months 
more and he would reach his goal. We some- 
times joked the old man, whom they called 
“the proprietor,*' but mockeries glided from 
him like rain from a roof. Wrapped up 
in his idea, every thing else was for him only 
noise. It was in seeing him that I reflected 
for the first time upon the strength that lay in 
an active, resolute will. Before this example 
I had not known what the perseverance of the 
most feeble can accomplish against the strong- 
est obstacle. 

The neighbor of old man Marcotte, in the 
chamber, had not learned this lesson. He was a 


Mother Madeleine. 


51 


journeyman locksmith, young and skillful, but 
who only worked when he wished, amused 
himself at will, and never remained in a shop 
longer than one month, for fear of being taken 
for moss,” as he said. Every thing which in- 
convenienced him he treated as a superstition. 
If one spoke of regularity in work, supersti- 
tion ! of honesty toward others, superstition ! 
of kindness toward comrades, superstition ! of 
duty to his relations, superstition ! Farou- 
mont declared loudly that each one lived for 
himself and ought to regard other men as ex- 
cellent game to fry when one can catch it. 
They laughed at his ideas, but there were ru- 
mors on his account which pointed to the 
police court, and the good workmen held 
themselves aloof from him. 

For my part I avoided him as much as pos- 
sible, less by reason than repugnance. From 
the first day he had called me “ the rose girl ” 
in sneering at some scruples which I had let 
him see ; and I had responded to the nick- 
name by calling him the convict,” in allusion 
to the galleys, where his principles, it seemed 
to me, would lead him. The two names were 
accepted by the lodgers. Although Farou- 


$2 A Workman’s Confessions. 

mont had appeared to take the thing in a 
laughing way he cherished ill-will toward me 
and endeavored many times to seek a quar- 
rel, knowing well that I was not strong enough 
to resist him ; but I conducted myself with 
such prudence as to thwart his intentions. 
Mauricet, witnessing one of his attempts, en- 
couraged me to persist. 

“Distrust him as you would the devil,” he 
said to me, seriously. “You know that I am 
not a child, and that I have coped with some 
solid fellows, but I should better like a sick- 
ness of six months than to have a quarrel with 
this one.” 

I thought the same. The intelligence and 
the wickedness of Faroumont rendered his 
strength truly formidable ; for one of the 
calamities of our condition — of us workers at 
the trades — is the blind respect which we have 
for brute force. By a sort of point of honor 
the workman is reduced to personal means of 
defense ; he draws glory from not seeking it 
outside, so that he who can triumph over each 
one, individually, finds himself in the way of 
tyrannizing over every body. If the race of 
duelists with swords has disappeared in the 


Mother Madeleine. 53 

other classes that of duelists with fists con- 
tinues as numerous as ever among us. How 
often have I seen these ferocious scamps who 
have crippled brave workmen, or even made 
widows, and whose villainy gave them a certain 
consideration ! No one dared show his scorn for 
fear of increasing the list of the victims. Every 
body said, “We must take care ; he is a wicked 
rascal ! And they held him in regard. Yet 
what could he have done against all ? Since 
all are in accord in judging him, how comes 
it about that they do not agree to execute 
judgment? Would it then be so difficult for 
the honest workmen to unite against these 
furious beasts to chase them from their places? 
But we still have* in one respect the idea of 
savages ; like them we take the spirit of bru- 
tality and of battle for courage, and we make 
of that a virtue which redeems all its vices ! 

The companionship of the lodging-house 
had made me as intimate with old man Mar- 
cotte as the difference in age and tastes would 
permit. He confided to me his project of soon 
retiring to the country ; he only waited the 
opportunity for completing the purchase of 
his little farm. 


54 


A Workman’s Confessions. 


Two or three days after this confidence he 
entered later than his custom ; a part of our 
companions were already in bed. I had sat up 
to write to Lonjumeau, and I was on the point 
of putting out my candle, when I heard the 
old man climbing the stairs and singing. He 
opened the door with a noisy assurance which 
astonished me. Contrary to all his habits, he 
talked in a loud voice, his eyes glistened and 
his hat had a swaggering tip over one ear. 
At the first look I comprehended that ** the 
proprietor ” had departed from his habitual 
sobriety. The wine rendered him talkative, 
and he seated himself upon the edge of his 
bed to relate to me the story of the evening. 
He had just left the carrier who executed the 
commissions from the country. He had in- 
formed him that the piece of land, long time 
coveted to complete his farm, was finally for 
sale ; the notary only waited for his money. 

“ Have you the sum ?” I asked. 

“As you say, my boy,” replied Marcotte, 
lowering his voice and with a mysterious 
laugh ; “ pounds and fractions, all is ready.” 

He looked around him to assure himself that 
every body slept ; then, burying his arm up to 


Mother Madeleine. 


55 


the shoulder in his mattress, he drew forth a 
bag which he showed me with a proud ex- 
pression. 

** See, here it is,” he said to me. “ There is 
here a fine bit of land and wherewithal to build 
a dog-kennel.” 

He had untwisted the cord which bound the 
cloth bag and plunged his hand within to touch 
the pieces; but at the noise of the chinking he 
trembled, glanced around, made a sign to me 
to say nothing, and, closing the sack, hid it 
under his bolster. He was soon in bed and 
asleep. 

I undressed to do the same ; but at the mo- 
ment of extinguishing the candle I turned to- 
ward the bed of Faroumont ; the journeyman 
locksmith had his eyes wide open. He closed 
them quickly under my look. J thought no 
more about it and went to bed. 

I cannot say what troubled my sleep in the 
midst of the night; I awoke with a start. 
The moon shone through the curtainless win- 
dows and threw a very clear light from our 
side. I found myself facing the bed of 
the convict ; ” it was empty ! I raised my- 
self upon my shoulder to see better. Doubt 


56 A Workman’s Confessions. 

was impossible ; Faroumont had got up ! At 
the same moment I heard the creaking of a 
floor-board at my right ; I turned my head. 
A shadow suddenly dropped and had the ap- 
pearance of hiding itself under the bed of Fa- 
ther Marcotte. I rubbed my eyes to assure 
myself that I was not dreaming, and I looked 
again. Nothing could be seen ; all had be- 
come silent. I lay down, keeping my eyes 
half open. A quarter of an hour passed and 
my eyelids began to close for good, when a 
new creaking of the boards made me open 
them. I only had time to see Faroumont get 
into bed and draw the clothes over him. No 
suspicions came to me at the moment, and I 
went to sleep. 

Exclamations, mixed with tears and groans, 
rudely interrupted my sleep. I jumped up 
with a bound ; the day began to break, and I 
perceived the Auvergnat tearing his hair be- 
fore his tumbled bed. All the chamber com- 
panions were sitting up in bed. 

“ What is the matter ? ” demanded many 
voices. 

“ Some one has stolen his money ! ” others 
responded. 


Mother Madeleine. 


57 


“ Yes, stolen this night ! ” repeated Mar- 
cotte, with a despair which rendered him fool- 
ish ; “ yesterday it was there. I touched it. 
I had it under my head when I went to sleep. 
The robber who took it is here ! ” 

A sudden recollection enlightened me. I 
turned toward “ the convict ; ” he was the 
only one who had the appearance of sleeping 
in the midst of all this tumult. I quickly con- 
sidered my position. I was probably the only 
one who had knowledge of the theft. If I 
kept silence the Auvergnat would lose the 
sum laboriously saved and which would real- 
ize the hopes pursued during forty years. If 
I spoke, on the contrary, I could force “ the 
convict*’ to a restitution, but I would expose 
myself to his vengeance! In spite of the 
danger of the choice my deliberation was 
short. I extended my hand toward the Au- 
vergnat and drew him toward me. 

“Calm yourself, Father Marcotte,” I cried; 
your money is not lost.” 

“ What is that you say? ” cried the old work- 
man, whose face had a frenzied look. “ You 
know where the bag is ! Wretch, is it you 
who have taken it ? ” 


58 A Workman's Confessions. 

Come, you are a fool ! ” I angrily said to 
him. 

“ Where is it, then ? where is it ? ” he began 
to cry, looking at me. 

I turned toward Faroumont. 

“ See here, ‘ Convict,’ the laugh has gone far 
enough ; your joke will givo ‘ the proprietor ’ 
the jaundice. Give him back his money, 
quickly.’ ' 

Although he had his eyes shut his face 
changed color, which proved to me that he had 
heard. Marcotte threw himself upon him, like 
a dog who shakes his prey, to reclaim his coins. 
Faroumont played well enough the man who 
awakes, and asked what they wanted ; but the 
cries of the Auvergnat made him understand 
too quickly to give him time to prepare any 
evasion. I insisted with resolution, represent- 
ing the taking of the bag as a bad turn played 
upon Father Marcotte with the intention of 
disturbing him. The convict ” was obliged 
to give back the money, repeating that he had 
wished to play a trick ; yet he read upon all 
faces without trouble that they knew how to 
take him, Every one hastily dressed and left 
without speaking. He alone affected not to 


Mother Madeleine. 


59 


hurry, and made his toilet whistling. But 
when I passed before his bed he cast at me a 
look of malignant rage which made me trem- 
ble from head to foot. Henceforth, I was 
sure of having a deadly enemy. 


6o 


A Workman’s Confessions. 


CHAPTER VI. 

THE ENEMY STRIKES. 

NE day Mauricet said to me, “ I have 



near Berny a debtor who failed last 
year, but who has come to the surface again. 
I must go and assure myself of the phenom- 
enon and fish out, if possible, my hundred 
crowns. Take the wagon with me Saturday 
evening. You can go as far as Lonjumeau to 
see Madeleine, and I will rejoin you the next 
day at the Bois Riant.” 

The thing was agreed. I had only visited 
my mother twice since her departure, and the 
last time I had found her almost completely 
blind, otherwise better than ever and in fine 
spirits. But this was three months ago, and 
work had since always kept me at the stone- 
yard. 

When I reached Lonjumeau the day was 
drawing to its close. I took the road which 
led to the house of Mother Riviou ; but they 
had cut the trees, built inclosures, and I no 


The Enemy Strikes. 6i 

more recognized the way. After having gone 
astray in two or three foot-paths I looked 
around me for some one who could set me in 
the right direction. The nearest house was 
quite distant, and I did not notice at first that, 
for the moment, the fields were d'eserted. Sud- 
denly I heard some one singing. I recognized 
the refrain of an old roundel which in my 
childhood I had often heard my mother sing. 
I stopped, surprised and pleased. It was the 
first time I had heard this air for fifteen years. 
It seemed to me that I had become a child 
again and that I heard Madeleine restored to 
youth. In fact, although the voice was strong 
and fresh, it recalled that of my mother. 
There was the same manner of throwing the 
sounds to the wind with a gentleness tinged a 
little with sadness, as I have since heard the 
shepherdesses of Burgundy and Champagne. 
I approached the singer, who was busy taking 
down white linen from a clothes-line. I found 
a girl with pleasing countenance who looked 
me full in the face when I asked the road to 
the Bois Riant, and who then began laughing. 

I will wager that you are Madeleine’s son,” 
she said to me. 


62 


A Workman’s Confessions. 


I looked at her in my turn, laughing. 

** And I will wager that you are the young 
girl that Mother Riviou expected,” I responded. 

“ They call you Peter Henry? ” 

** And you Genevieve ? ” 

“ Well, then, here is an unexpected meeting.” 

**As if we recognized each other Avithout 
ever having seen one another ! ” 

We broke again into laughter, and the ex- 
planations began. 

I learned that my mother had completely 
lost her sight, but was unwilling to admit it. 
For the rest Genevieve declared to me that she 
was braver than all the young people in the 
house and always sang like a bird. 

“ Did she teach you the refrain which you 
have just sung?” I asked. 

“Ah, you have heard me?” she replied. 
“Yes, yes; the good Madeleine taught me all 
her old songs. She said that they would help 
me to lull my children or those of others.” 

While talking she hastened to gather her 
linen. I aided her in making a bundle, which 
I took upon my shoulder. 

“ Well, then, so I have a servant ! ” she said, 
gayly. 


Thé Enemy Strikes. 


63 


And as I told her that it was right for the 
son to repay that which she did for the mother 
she commenced to speak to me of Madeleine 
with so much friendship that when we reached 
the Bois Riant I had already declared my obli- 
gation to her from the bottom of my heart. 

Mother, who was at the door, recognized my 
voice, and did not omit to say that she had 
seen me. Since the darkness of night had shut 
her in all her pride lay in not appearing blind. 
Genevieve aided her without having the ap- 
pearance of it. She had surrounded the house, 
outside and in, with a thick cord which formed 
a leading-string and directed the blind one. 
A knot served to inform her when she ap- 
proached a door, a piece of furniture, or a step. 
A rattle, shaken by the wind, indicated to her 
the location of the well. Recognizing signs 
had likewise been placed in the garden-paths. 
Thanks to Genevieve, in short. Bois Riant was 
a veritable topographical chart which one could 
read by feeling the way. The dear woman 
was always moving about, found every thing 
because they had put every thing under her 
hand, and boasted of it each time as if it were 
a proof of her clear sight. Every body iii the 


64 A Workman’s Confessions. 

house respected her error and felt an innocent 
pleasure in heeping up the deception. She 
was like a spoiled child there who made all 
smile and appeared welcome. 

Mauricet, who had rejoined me according to 
his promise, understood immediately the posi- 
tion which Madeleine held by the kindness of 
her hostess. 

^‘You have not always had your due in 
comfort and happiness,” he said to her, “ but 
it seems to me that now the arrears are being 
made up to you.” 

The country is certainly agreeable,” replied 
the good woman, who did not like to avow too 
loudly her contentment. 

“Yes,” replied Mauricet; “but these are 
nice people who make the country so pleas- 
ant, and you have fallen here upon a colony of 
Christians of a kind not too common.” 

“ I do not complain,” observed Madeleine. 

“And you are right,” continued the master- 
mason. “ These good hearts have made up to 
you that which chance has taken away. That 
is why I advise you to thank the ailment which 
has brought you so many servants and friends. 
If you still had your eyes — ” 


The Enemy Strikes. 65 

“ What ! what ! my eyes ! ” impatiently in- 
terrupted the old mother. “ Do you imagine, 
by chance, that I am blind ? ” 

“ It is true — you are cured,” replied Mau- 
ricet, smiling. 

“ And the proof is that I see you,” continued 
Madeleine, who heard the noise of the forks. 
“ You are at table with Peter Henry. Ah, ah ! 
just now you have asked for bread, and you 
have cut it. Ah, ah, ah ! there is nothing 
which escapes me, and there are still more 
than one with the eyes of fifteen years who 
could not do that which I do here.” 

Mother Riviou came to the support of what 
Madeleine said by reporting all that she left to 
her care in the house. The excellent woman 
,had comprehended that for the infirm person 
who still retains courage the hardest trial is the 
feeling of uselessness. Genevieve outdid her 
mistress. When we were on the way back 
Mauricet remarked to me this good under- 
standing of all the family to make Madeleine 
contented. 

“ They say, though, that the world is 
wicked,” he added, with warmth; ‘‘that the 

good people have become, like white blackbirds, 
5 


66 A Workman’s Confessions. 

impossible to find ; but those who say so, you 
see, do not seek for them, and, more often, do 
not care to. For my part, I have never passed 
a day without receiving from some one a good 
word or a good service. Unhappily, there are 
people who only make account of the evil done 
them and who receive the good as a delayed 
payment. It is almost always because one is 
too content with himself that he is discontented 
with every body else.” 

Some months passed without any thing 
special happening. I made many journeys to 
the Bois Riant, and Genevieve often brought 
me news of the old mother. The excellent 
girl came to Paris as often as she could to see 
her nephew Robert, placed by her in appren- 
ticeship. Robert was then seventeen years old, 
and worked in a shop where imitation jewelry 
was made, but with the airs of the son of a 
well-to-do family. His master, whom I went 
to see one day on behalf of Genevieve, de- 
clared to me that he would never become more 
than a bungler who makes threepenny trash. 

He wishes to be a perfumed fop,^’ he said 
to me ; “ but he has not the heart nor the hands 
to work.” 


The Enemy Strikes. 


67 


In truth, Mr. Robert resembled rather a sen- 
ator’s son than a jeweler’s apprentice. Gene- 
vieve gave him her last sou, and when they 
blamed her she always told how her brother 
had recommended the child to her on his 
death-bed, how she had promised to be every 
thing to him, and then, when the great tears 
came into her eyes and rolled down her cheeks, 
no one had the heart to say any thing more. 
Mr. Robert knew her weakness and did not 
fail to abuse it. He had a pretty little pink 
face, the white hands and soft voice of a young 
girl. One would have said that he was a 
lamb to be led with a ribbon ; but in reality 
nothing could turn him against his will, and a 
mad dog had been more easy to lead. I after- 
ward came to know this to my great damage. 
For the time our intercourse was limited to 
short conversations. It appeared to me that 
the little nephew was not enchanted with the 
acquaintance of his aunt. Indeed, our friend- 
ships and our occupations were far removed 
from each other. Mr. Robert sang romantic 
songs, made the rounds of the restaurants, and 
frequented the balls at night. 

As for me, I lived by myself more than ever. 


68 


A Workman’s Confessions. 


The affair with Faroumont had intensified my 
distaste for the lodging-house, and I had rented 
a little room under the roofs. A chair, a trunk, 
a cot-bed formed all my movables ; but at 
least I was alone. The space comprised be- 
tween the four walls belonged only to me. 
They came not, as in the lodging-house, to 
breathe my air, trouble my quiet, interrupt my 
song or my sleep. I was master of that which 
surrounded me, and that is the only means of 
being master of one’s self. This, at first, ap- 
peared to me so good that I only thought of 
enjoying it. I was like a shivering man who, 
once buried in the bedclothes, is loath to 
leave them. I doted upon my new liberty, and 
I no more quitted my mansard after work- 
hours. Mauricet complained two or three 
times of seeing me no more. 

“You are getting in the habit of living on 
the sly,” he said to me. “ In the world, as in 
the army, you see, it is good to be elbowed a 
little by your neighbor. You are too young to 
turn snail and withdraw yourself into a shell. 
Come and see your friends. It is healthy for 
the heart to take the air.” 

I had responded nothing ; only I continued 


The Enemy Strikes. 69 

to cling to my ways. I might have been able 
to utilize this kind of retreat by resuming my 
interrupted studies ; but no one urged me, and 
I did not feel the taste for it. I can hardly 
say what passed within me. I was like one 
benumbed in my supineness. I rested entire 
hours without thinking precisely of any thing, 
but going from one thing to another like a man 
who strolls without aim. I had need of a shak- 
ing to draw me out from this waking sleep. 
The malice of Faroumont prepared one for me 
upon which I had not counted. 

We had not seen each other for many 
months, when I encountered him at a building 
we were completing in the Rue du Cherche 
Midi. He came to place the great irons of the 
timber-work. In recognizing me he had inter- 
rupted his work with a wicked laugh. 

“ Well, then, cursed dog, so you are botch- 
ing here!” he demanded, with his usual in- 
solence. 

I responded briefly in mounting a window, 
cut through the wall as an after-thought, and 
which I came to finish. 

Ah, the scaffold is for you ! ” he said, and 
his glance turned toward the plank which hung 


70 A Workman’s Confessions. 

from the height of the gable. I went below 
and left my vest and lunch-basket ; then I 
climbed toward the new window. The scaffold 
was strongly suspended by two ropes that I 
had myself attached to the timbering ; but 
scarcely had I placed my feet upon it than the 
evil face of “ the convict ” showed itself above 
between the joists ; at the sapne instant a cord 
was unknotted, the plank swung, and I was 
thrown from a height of forty feet upon the 
rubbish below. 

I cannot say how long a time I remained 
senseless ; the pain brought me to conscious- 
ness at the moment they wished to move me. 
It seemed to me that the earth on which I was 
extended made a part of myself, and that they 
could not take me away from it without tear- 
ing me. Some comrades went to look for a 
doctor and a stretcher, while the others, among 
whom was Faroumont, continued to surround 
me. I suffered cruelly, but it seemed to me 
that my wounds were not mortal. 

The doctor, who arrived soon after, said 
nothing. He gave me some preliminary atten- 
tions and had me put upon the stretcher and 
carried to the hospital. 


The Enemy Strikes. 


71 


I recall only confusedly what passed for 
some days. My first distinct recollection was 
the visit of Mauricet. He informed me that I 
had lain there a week ; that they had despaired 
of my life, and that now the head doctor 
would answer for it. The brave man was re- 
joiced at the news, and yet a little angry at 
me. When he had asked the cause of the acci- 
dent they had told him of a cord badly tied, 
and he reproached me energetically for my 
negligence. I justified myself without trouble 
by relating to him what had passed. He re- 
coiled and smote his hands together. 

Here is the key to the charade ! ” he ex- 
claimed. “ Name the club and I would not 
doubt ! Since ‘ the convict ’ was there one can 
wager that the devil would be mixed in it. 
Have you already spoken of it to any one ? ” 

“ To no one.” 

And there was no witness? ” 

“ We were alone at the top of the building.” 
“ Then hush ! Not a word !” he said, after a 
moment’s reflection. “Accusing an enemy with- 
out proof will not rid you of him, but will en- 
venom him. If you say nothing ‘ the convict’ 
will, perhaps, consider your account squared 


j2 A Workman’s Confessions. 

and trouble you no more, while in talking 
about it you will oblige him to begin again. 
What has happened to you has happened to 
many others in our condition. I myself have 
made a false step of two stories by the malice 
of a companion who owed me forty crowns 
of which he hoped thus to acquit himself. 
There were only we two who knew the thing ; 
I whispered not a word. I let time do justice 
to the rascal, and six months after two of his 
fellows clubbed him like a dog to steal thirty 
sous from him.” 

I comprehended the prudence of Mauricet’s 
advice, and yet I submitted myself to it only 
with repugnance. 

My fall kept me more than two months at 
the hospital. I was desperate sometimes, the 
cure was so slow ; but I had a neighbor who 
gave me courage. 

He was a poor old man, bent with suffering, 
and who called himself, I believe, Pariset. 
They only called him here by the number of 
his bed, which was twelve. This bed had al- 
ready received him thrice for three long sick- 
nesses, and was thus become in some sort his 
property. Mr. No. Twelve ” was known by 


The Enemy Strikes. 73 

the doctor-in-chief, the students, and the at- 
tendants. Never a gentler creature walked be- 
neath the heaven. When I say walked it was 
so no more, alas ! for the brave man that was 
only a recollection 1 For nearly two years he 
had lost almost completely the use of his 
limbs. Still, in the meantime he lived by 
copying law-papers. He was not much dis- 
concerted, he said, and he had continued to 
draw up his lists on the stamped paper. A 
little later the paralysis attacked the right 
arm ; he then practiced writing with his left 
hand ; but the evil grew ; it was necessary to 
carry him to the hospital, where he had had 
the happiness of finding his own bed again 
free ; and this had almost consoled him. 

“ Bad luck is only for a time,” he said on 
this occasion ; “ every day has a to-morrow.” 

Old man No. Twelve had taken possession 
of his bed with emotion. The hospital, where 
staying seems so hard to some people, was for 
him a house of pleasure. He found there 
every thing to his liking. His admiration for 
the least comforts proved what privations he 
had until then supported. He went into ecsta- 
sies over the cleanness of the linen, over the 


74 A Workman's Confessions. 

whiteness of the bread and the richness of the 
soups ; and I was no more astonished when I 
was told that for twenty years he had lived 
upon army-bread, herb soup, and white cheese. 
He could not enough praise the munificence 
of the nation which had opened such retreats 
for the sick poor. Besides, his gratitude did 
not stop there. It embraced all. To hear him 
one would suppose that God had for him par- 
ticular favor ; men showed themselves full of 
kindness, and things always turned to his ad- 
vantage. As the doctor said, No. Twelve had 
the fatuity of happiness ; ” but this fatuity 
only gave us esteem for the brave man and 
encouragement for one’s self. 

I believe I see him yet, sitting up in bed 
with his little night-cap of black silk, his spec- 
tacles, and the old volume of verse whic]^ he 
ceased not to read. His bed received in the 
morning the first rays of the sun, and he never 
saw them without rejoicing and thanking God. 
To see his gratitude one would have said that 
the sun arose especially for him. He kept regu- 
larly informed of the progress of my recovery, 
and always found something to say to give me 
patience. Of that he was himself a living exam- 


The Enemy Strikes. 


75 


pie which said more than words. When I saw 
this poor body without movement, those dis- 
torted limbs, and above that smiling face, I 
had neither the courage to be impatient nor to 
complain. 

‘‘ It is a bad moment to pass,” he said at 
each crisis ; the solace will soon come ; every 
day has a to-morrow.” 

This was the word of Father No. Twelve, 
and he returned to it ceaselessly. Mauricet, 
who in coming to see me came to know him, 
never passed before his bed without saluting 
him. 

“ He is a saint,” he said to me ; “ but he gains 
paradise not alone for himself, he makes others 
gain it too. Such men ought to be placed on 
the top of a column, to be seen by every body. 
When one looks at them it makes him 
ashamed of being happy, and that gives one 
the wish to merit it.” 

Toward the end of my stay at the hospital 
the strength of Father No. Twelve dimin- 
ished rapidly. He lost at first all movement, 
then his tongue itself became confused. There 
were only left the eyes, which still smiled at 
us. One morning, however, it appeared to me 


76 A Workman’s Confessions. 

that his eyes were dimmer. I got up and ap- 
proached to ask him if he wished to drink ; he 
made a movement of the eyelids which thanked 
me, and at this moment the first ray of the 
rising sun gleamed upon his bed. Then his 
eyes brightened, like a light which sparkles 
before going out ; he had the appearance of 
saluting this last gift of the good God. Then 
I saw his head fall back on one side ; his brave 
heart had ceased to beat, and there were no 
more to-days for him ; he had begun the eternal 
to-morrow. 


The Great Contractor. 


77 


CHAPTER VII. 

THE GREAT CONTRACTOR. 

leaving the hospital I resumed my 
work, but slowly ; I had no longer as 
much strength as formerly, nor, above all, so 
much ardor. This long repose seemed to have 
mixed water with my blood. I was, besides, 
so well cured of my ambition by the example 
of the old copyist that I tranquilly awaited the 
bread of each day without troubling myself 
whether it should be black or white. Mauricet 
became impatient .at my apathy. 

“ It isn^t necessary to exaggerate things,” he 
said ; “ once the soup is made good children 
eat it as it is ; but while it is making they en- 
deavor to enrich it. After all, we are no more 
at nurse ! it is not for Providence to cook our 
food for us ; each one ought to lend a hand. 
The wise thing for a young fellow who has 
his four members is not to liv^e like a paralytic, 
but by serving himself the best he can.” 

I did not argue with him ; my hands merely 


y 8 A Workman’s Confessions. 

continued to work, my heart was in it no 
more. I would not have been able myself to 
say why. Nothing in this state displeased 
me, neither pleased me. My courage sim- 
ply slept. An opportunity was necessary to 
awaken it. 

I went one day with Mauricet to the dwell- 
ing of one of the greatest contractors in Paris 
for some instruction asked by the master-ma- 
^son, and which, under his dictation, I had put 
in writing. The contractor was not in his of- 
fice ; so they made us go through many rooms 
to join him in the garden. There were every- 
where carpets of many colors, furniture with 
gilded feet, tapestry of silk and velvet curtains. 
Never had I seen any thing like it ; my eyes 
opened widely, and I walked upon my toe-tips 
for fear of crushing the flowers of the carpet. 
Mauricet glanced at me sideways. 

“ Well, then, how do you find the house?” 
he asked, with a sly air. Does it appear to 
you handsome and substantial enough ? ” 

I replied that the house had the appearance 
of that of a prince. 

Prince of the trowel and the square,” re- 
sponded my companion. He has three other 


The Great Contractor. 79 

houses in Paris, without speaking of a country 
house.” 

I said nothing at the moment ; all this opu- 
lence stirred something unpleasant within me. 
In seeing so much velvet and silk I looked at 
myself, I know not why, and I was ashamed 
to be so badly dressed. But in my shame there 
was discontent ; I felt disposed to hate the 
master of all these riches for having made me 
remark my poverty. Mauricet, who suspected 
nothing, continued to detail the beauties of the 
dwelling. I listened with impatience ; my 
heart beat, the blood mounted to my face, my 
eyes could not stop looking, and the more I 
saw the more I became exasperated. My am- 
bition, which had slept for some time, awak- 
ened, but through envy ! 

We had halted in the best salon while the 
domestic sought his master. Mauricet all at 
once pointed out to me an ugly little portrait 
hung in the midst of large pictures richly 
framed. It represented a workman in his vest, 
holding in one hand his pipe and in the other 
a compass. 

‘‘ Behold the gentleman," the mason said to 


me. 


8o A Workman’s Confessions. 

Has he been a workman, then ?” I asked. 

“ Like you and me,” replied Mauricet ; 
” and you see that he is not ashamed of it.” 

I looked at the frame of black wood, then at 
the rich furniture, as if my mind sought the 
transition from one to the other. 

“ Ah, this troubles your reason,” resumed 
the mason, laughing ; “ you seek the ladder 
which has been able to land him here from the 
height of his scaffold. But every body doesn’t 
know how to serve himself, you see ; in wish- 
ing to take it more than one has lacked the 
advantages ; it is necessary to have wrists and 
cleverness.” 

I observed that above all it was necessary to 
have the chance, that all were happy or un- 
happy in the world, and that the individual 
counted for nothing in achieving success. 

For example, Father Mauricet,” I sharply 
added, ** why have you not a hotel as well as 
he who dwells here ? Are you less meritorious 
or less brave ? If he has succeeded better than 
you is it not all a stupid story of chance ? ” 

Mauricet fastened his eye upon me. 

You say this for me, but it is of yourself 
that you think, sonny,” he slyly replied. 


The Great Contractor. 8i 

“ It is all the same/’ I said, a little vexed at 
having my thought divined. “ I don’t pass for 
a bad workman ; if it only sufficed to do one’s 
duty I should also ride in a carriage.” 

“ And is it a manner of going about which 
would become you?” added my companion, 
ironically. 

“ Why not ? Every body likes better to save 
his legs than those of horses ; but have no fear 
that I shall reach that ; it is down here, you see, 
as formerly with the noble families, all for the 
oldest, nothing for the younger ones, and we 
are the younger ones, we others.” 

It is true, however,” murmured the master- 
journeyman, who became thoughtful. 

“And there is nothing to say,” I continued. 
“Since it is agreed to it is just! It is not 
necessary to disturb the world ! Only, you 
see, it makes my blood boil when I look at the 
share of each one. Whence comes it that this 
man here lodges in a palace whilst others perch 
in pigeon-houses? Why is it that these car- 
pets, these silks, these velvets, belong to him 
rather than to us ? ” 

“ Because I have earned them,” some one in- 
terrupted, bluntly. 

0 


82 A Workman’s Co^tfessions. 

I started ; the contractor was behind us în 
broidered slippers and dressing-gown ! He was 
a little gray man, but with a strong figure and 
a commanding voice. 

“ Ah ! it appears that you are a reasoner,” he 
continued, looking at me through half-shut 
eyes. “You are jealous of me. You ask by 
what right my house belongs to me rather than 
to you. Well, then, you shall know. Come!” 

He had made a movement toward an interior 
door. I hesitated to follow him. He turned 
toward me. 

“ Are you afraid ? ” he demanded, in a tone 
which made me red to the eyes. 

“ Let the gentleman show me the way,” I 
replied, almost impudently. 

He conducted us into an office, in the midst 
of which stood a long table covered with ink- 
cups, brushes, rulers, and compasses. Upon 
the walls hung colored plans representing all 
the details of a building. Here and there upon 
stands might be seen little models of staircases, 
or timber-work, magnetic compasses, graphom- 
eters, with other instruments, the use of which 
I was ignorant. An immense case with labeled 
compartments occupied the end of the room, 


The Great Contractor. 83 

and upon a bureau were heaped memoranda 
and estimates. The contractor stopped before 
the large table and showed me a color-cup. 

“ Here is a plan to modify, he said. They 
wish to narrow the building by three meters, 
but without diminishing the number of cham- 
bers, and it is necessary to find a place for the 
staircase. Sit down and make me a sketch of 
the thing.” 

I looked at him with surprise, and observed 
that I did not know how to design. 

“Then examine for me this estimate,” he 
resumed, taking a bundle of papers from his 
bureau ; “ there are three hundred and twelve 
articles to discuss.” 

I responded that I was not well enough in- 
formed in such work to discuss prices or to 
verify measurements 

“You at lea^t can tell me,” continued thé 
contractor, “ what are the formalities to fulfill 
for the three houses which I am going to build ; 
you know the rules of building inspection, the 
obligations and rights with regard to neigh- 
bors.^” 

I quickly interrupted him, saying that I was 
nota lawyer. ' 


84 A Workman’s Confessions. 

“ And you are neither a banker,” resumed the 
gentleman ; “ you are ignorant, without doubt, 
in what language it is necessary to draw up the 
terms of payment, what is the average time 
needful to sell in, what interest one ought to 
draw from his capital not to become bankrupt. 
As you are not a trader you would be very 
much embarrassed in naming the sources of the 
best materials, of choosing the best time for 
buying them, the most economical means of 
transporting them. As you are not a mechanic 
it is useless for me to inquire if the crane, of 
which you see the model there, yields its force 
with the highest economy. As you are not a 
mathematician you would vainly attempt to 
judge this new system of bridge-building which 
I am to apply on the lower Seine. Finally, as 
you know nothing except what a thousand 
other journeymen know you are only good 
as they are, to handle the trowel and the 
hammer ! ” 

I was completely disconcerted, and I twirled 
my hat without responding. 

** Do you understand now why I dwell in a 
great house while you live in an attic ?” resumed 
the contractor, raising his voice. “ It is because 


The Great Contractor. 85 

I have taken the trouble ; it is because I have 
informed myself of all that which you have 
neglected to know ; it is because of my hard 
study and strong will that I have become a 
general while you remain among the conscripts ! 
By what right, then, do you demand the same 
advantages as your superiors ? Ought society 
not to recompense each one according to the 
services he renders ? If you wish it to treat you 
like me do what I have done ; scrimp your 
bread to buy books ; pass the day working and 
the night studying ; watch every-where for in- 
struction as the merchant watches for a profit, 
and when you shall show that nothing dis- 
courages you, when you know things and men, 
then, if you remain in your attic, come and 
complain and I will listen to you.’* 

The contractor spoke with much animation, 
and finished by being a little angry. Still, I 
answered nothing ; his reasons had left me 
speechless. Mauricet, who saw my embarrass- 
ment, attempted some words to justify me, and 
then came to the subject of our visit. The 
gentleman examined my note, asked some ex- 
planations, then took leave of us. But at the 
moment I was passing the door he recalled me. 


86 A Workman’s Confessions. 

** Remember what I have told you, com- 
rade,” he resumed, with familiar good-nature, 
and instead of having envy try to have a little 
honest ambition. Do not lose your time fum- 
ing against those who are higher up ; work, 
rather, to spin a cord to join them. If I can 
ever aid you you have only to say the word and 
I will lend you the first bit of hemp ! ” 

I thanked him very briefly and hastened to 
leave. When we were in the street Mauricet 
broke into laughter. 

. ** Well, well ! Here is a humiliation for a 
wise man like you ! ” he exclaimed. Wasn’t 
he proud of having nonplused you ? ” 

And as he saw that I made a movement of 
impatience, “ Come now, are you going to get 
angry over such a farce?” he added in a friendly 
way, “ The gentleman has pleaded his cause ; 
it is just, too ; but if I do not keep a carriage I 
know one when I see it. A millionaire, you 
see, is made neither with the compass nor with 
the drawing-pen.” 

“ And with what, then? ” I asked. 

. ‘‘ With money ! ” 

I was this time of the opinion of the master- 
workman ; but in spite of my vexation the 


The Great Contractor. 87 

contractor’s lesson had struck home. When I 
regained my coolness I came to think that 
reason was altogether on his side. This episode 
had given my mind a wholesome shake. I re- 
sumed my former activity. Convinced of the 
necessity of instruction, I recovered my taste 
for study. The difficulty was to procure the 
means. Although it was a little painful to re- 
turn to the contractor, whose recollection of me 
might be unpleasant, I decided to recall to him 
his proposition to aid me. He received me 
well, informed himself of what I knew, and sent 
me to a surveyor whom he employed. He ad- 
mitted me gratuitously into an evening class to 
which some young peoplè came to be instructed 
in geometry and drawing. 

I made myself remarked at first only for stu- 
pidity and awkwardness. It was always neces- 
sary to explain to me twice what the others 
comprehended at the first statement ; my hand, 
used to lifting stone, pierced the paper or 
crushed the crayons. I was very far behind 
the last scholar ! Yet, little by little, by the 
force of perseverance the distance decreased 
and I slowly reached the average level. 


88 


A Workman’s Confessions. 


CHAPTER VIIL 

THE MOTHER’S LAST GIFT. 

M y life tranquilly passed between work at 
the stone-yard and that of the class. 
From time to time I went to see my mother at 
Lonjumeau, and Genevieve brought me news 
of her. For some months the strength of the 
blind woman had sensibly decreased ; she sel- 
dom left her easy-chair, and her mind was not 
clear. Mauricet was struck by it as well as 
myself. 

“ The distaff is tangled,” he said to me, with 
his customary curtness ; “ beware the end of 
the skein ! ” 

I repulsed this sinister prediction with a sort 
of anger. 

** What ! what ! ” resumed the master-work- 
man, ** do you think the thing is more a smiling 
matter to me than to you ? But the future is 
like men ; it is always necessary to look it in the 
face. Do you not see that there is no benefit 
in closing the eyes so as not to see the evil 


The Mother’s Last Gift. 89 

which must come ? It is beautiful to love one 
another, my poor child, but one day or another 
we must part ; so much the better for those who 
leave first.” 

** And why think in advance of these cruel 
separations ?” I asked. 

“ Why ? ” repeated Mauricet. So as not to 
be taken by surprise, my little one ; to strengthen 
the heart and to conduct one’s self like a man 
when the moment comes ! In life, you see, the 
question is not to play at hide-and-seek with 
truth ; brave people lie neither to others nor to 
themselves. Besides,” he added, with feeling, 
“ think of death ; it is always wholesome ! 
Whether one goes or sees another go, one 
wishes to leave a good memory with those w’ho 
go or with those who remain, and he becomes 
better. Now that you are forewarned I think 
you will occupy yourself more with Madeleine, 
and that you will have a very pleasant evening 
after so wretched a day.” 

Mauricet spoke truly ; his warning had re- 
sulted in making me return oftener to the farm 
and recalling to me more constantly my duty. 
At each visit I carried to my mother what I 
knew would pieuse her taste, and she thanked 


90 


A Workman’s Confessions. 


me in embracing me as she had never done be- 
fore. Perhaps, also, she felt her life ebbing, and 
she clung with the more affection to those 
whom she was so soon to leave. 

“ You wish to make me thank the good God 
for being old ! ” she said to me at every new 
care I took of her. 

Then she began to talk of her youth, of the 
first years of her married life, of my childhood. 
She recalled all that I had done, all that I had 
said from the day of my birth ; it was for her 
the history of the world. Genevieve listened 
as attentively as if she had recounted the life 
of Napoleon. Always watchful, always sing- 
ing, she brought with her an atmosphere of 
cheerfulness. Her blind mistress scolded her, 
but in a tone which seemed to say that it was 
only to occupy myself with you, and when we 
were alone she would repeat, “ She is the 
youngest daughter of the good God ! ” Gene- 
vieve, who heard her sometimes, never ap- 
peared to do so, in order to leave the good 
woman the pleasure of grumbling. However, 
at my last visit she seemed troubled. 

Mother Madeleine gets no better,” she said 
to me at ^he moment of my departure. 


The Mother’s Last Gift. 91 

*‘Alas ! my God, I have seen it ! ” I replied; 

but she pretends not to suffer, and refuses to 
see a doctor.” 

“ Perhaps she is right,” said the young girl; 
“that would only sadden her.” 

We exchanged a sigh, and I left with a pang 
at my heart. 

The next day I was at a new building upon 
the highest scaffolding, when I heard myself 
called. I looked down and my heart stopped 
beating ; it was Genevieve. 

“ How does mother do ?” I cried to her. 

“ Badly,” she responded, in an altered voice. 

In an instant I had descended. 

“ She wishes to see you,” continued Gene- 
vieve, quickly ; “ come immediately ; the doc- 
tor said that time pressed.” 

We left at once. Never had the road ap- 
peared so long. It seemed to me that the 
horses traveled slower, that the driver stopped 
oftener. I would have liked to know the exact 
state of the old mother, and I dared not ques- 
tion Genevieve. We at last arrived at Lonju- 
meau. I took the way to the farm, almost 
running. Mother Riviou was not in the fields 
according to her habit ; I saw her at the door 


92 A Workman’s Confe;ssions. 

with an air of waiting. This appeared to me a 
bad sign. She cried out on seeing me. I 
looked at her in a way she comorehended, for 
she eagerly said to me, “ Come in ; she asks for 

9 9 

you. 

I found mother very low ; yet she recognized 
me and extended both hands. I cannot say 
what passed within me then ; but when I saw 
her thus, with leaden-colored features, glassy 
eyes, and lips agitated by the chill of death, 
the recollection of all that she had done for 
me suddenly traversed my mind. The idea 
that I was going to lose her without having 
requited so much kindness struck me like a 
knife. I uttered a cry and threw myself in 
her arms. 

“ Come, Peter, donT grieve,” she said to me, 
very low ; “ I die content, since I have seen you.” 

I felt that it was necessary to master my 
pain, and I seated myself near the bed and 
sought to persuade her there was hope ; but 
she would not listen to me. 

‘‘ Lose no time deceiving yourself,” she said 
to me, in a voice which grew more feeble ; “ I 
desire to tell you my last wishes ; call Gene- 
vieve.” 


The Mother’s Last Gift. 93 

The young girl approached ; the dying 
woman gave her the keys to her closet and 
asked for many things which she designated 
— a watch which had belonged to my father, 
her wedding ear-rings, a little silver goblet, and 
some jewelry. She had them placed upon the 
bed, called one after the other of the people 
of the house, and gave something to each one. 
Mother Riviou had the silver goblet ; she gave 
.me the watch, and wished Genevieve to take 
the ear-ringst She then chose the sheet in 
which they should lay her out, told how she 
wished to be buried, and asked that there 
should be upon her tomb a stone cut by my- 
self. 

We listened, keeping back our tears with 
great trouble, and promised all that she asked. 
Then the pastor came. My heart was too full ; 
I went out to weep behind the house. 

I believe that I remained there a long time, 
for when I re-entered it was night. The pastor 
had gone. I heard Genevieve respond to my 
mother. At the first word I comprehended 
that the question concerned me. The dying 
mother, disturbed about leaving her son alone 
in the world, had communicated to the young 


94 A Workman’s Confessions. 

girl a wish which she had the appearance of 
softly resisting. 

“ Peter Henry is too wise and good-hearted 
not to know what he wishes to do,” she said, 
in a voice a little troubled. 

“ But, then, why do you not wish to marry 
him ? ” demanded the mother. 

“ I have not said that. Mother Madeleine,”’ 
responded Genevieve. 

“ Let me speak to him, then.” 

“ No,” she quickly continued ; “ to-day he 
can refuse you nothing, and later he may re- 
pent. It is not for you to decide; neither 
for me, good mother ; he ought to choose ac- 
cording to his own taste and will. Whatever 
he does you know well that I shall always be 
ready to serve him.” 

“ Alas ! ” murmured my mother, plaintively, 
“ I waited for yet this joy upon earth.” 

“ And you shall have it if it only depends 
upon me,” I cried, in approaching the bed. 
“ No one can fear that I shall repent, for your 
choice is my choice.” 

There, I have espoused Genevieve, and 1 
can say that this has been the last gift from 
her who brought me into the world. 


The Mother’s Last Gift. 95- 

She died the next day when the clock struck 
twelve, holding my hand and that of Gene- 
vieve. Let God recompense her for what she 
has suffered, and make up to her that which I 
have not been able to render ! A mother is 
too much a creditor for her children ever to 
pay her here below. 


96 A Workman’s Confessions. 


CHAPTER IX. 

SUDDEN MISFORTUNE. 

M y marriage to Genevieve put an end to 
my studies. Until then I had worked 
to become capable ; once at the head of a 
family I should occupy myself drawing some 
return from my capacities. 

For those who live by work this setting up 
of a home is a great joy and a great encour- 
agement. The idea that one tires himself no 
more for himself alone fills the heart with 
courage ; one begins to think of the to-mor- 
row when company may arrive ; in feeling that 
henceforth one is two he knots more tightly 
the cords of his scaffolding, and he adds a 
stanchion the more for safety. Since my wed- 
ding-day I have had many cares and black hu- 
mors ; more than one time, under the heavy 
charge of a family, I have felt the suspenders 
pulling on my shoulders ; but when I have re- 
turned to my better self I have always found 
that marriage is a holy and brave thing, the 


Sudden Misfortune. 


97 


best help against the bad strokes of fate, and 
altogether the true strength of men of good- 
will. 

Therefore it is wise to know that your choice 
is well placed. Before calling thus into your 
life another yourself, who will become your 
living shadow, it is good to look at her from' 
the head as well as from the heart to assure 
one’s self that he shall have near him in the 
house a second conscience and not a tempter; 
If we hesitate to take an associate in business 
for fear that he may take one’s credit and 
money, how much more for a partner of exist-j 
ence, who can take from one his repose and 
honor?. To tell the truth, the women who 
thus turn against one are very few ; almost all 
bring into the home at least as much of up- 
rightness, good conduct, and devotion- as the 
husband. They may have more little faults, 
but they have fewer vices. It is rare to find 
them hardened in evil ; yet if this comes about 
it is oftener than not by our fault. ’ 

Those who live above us in the ease which 
comes of inheritance, or who gain their living 
without much trouble, dp not know all the 
worth of the brave wife of a workman. She 

i 


98 A Workman’s Confessions. 

is not only the manager of his bread, she is the 
manager of his courage and of his probity. 
What temptations would not enter the dwell- 
ing if she were not there to close the door ! 
What ugly ideas which dare not form them- 
selves because her look searches him to the 
bottom ! The difficulty of avowing a bad in- 
tention forces us often to remain honest ; for 
it is not so easy as might be believed for one 
to declare his wickedness to another, and for 
both to go in an evil way. Though one does 
so the boldness is not equal ; there is always 
one who is troubled, who draws back, and it is 
more often the woman. Usually where she is 
listened to all goes straight and safely. 

For my part I had made a happy choice. I 
found in Genevieve all I had hoped, and more. 
Such as I had seen her the first day, such I 
found her after marriage, and such she has ever 
remained. I have confided to her all my proj- 
ects ; I have told her all my business, and she 
has given me counsel without too much hav- 
ing the appearance of it. To my mind the 
greatest joy of the home is in this trust, which 
makes the heart, like the purse, always in com- 
mon. If you are sad or angry or hopeful you 


Sudden Misfortune. 99 

will find at least one to share these sentiments 
with you ; you do not let all these little rivu- 
lets form a pond, as it were, until at length 
they burst the bank. That which the current 
of life brings to you each day is carried away by 
these confidences as by an overflow, and in this 
manner the soul keeps near its level. 

Since my marriage I had imitated Mauricet. 
I had undertaken a little enterprise which had 
succeeded ; but, like all those who begin, I 
had to bid low and work upon small resources. 
The good result was less in the profit than in 
the success. I had gained little, but I began to 
make myself known. Soon I found myself full 
of business. My exactitude and my activity 
had inspired confidence. Lacking capital, I 
obtained credit. It was necessary to have mind 
and hand in every thing, press things vigor- 
ously, safely, and complete them at the fixed 
time under penalty of a downfall. The task 
was hard, but in the end all went well ; the 
returns and the payments were managed so as 
to balance, and I hoped that my efforts would 
finish by relieving my elbows a little. Once 
master of sufficient capital, things would go 
themselves; only for the time being it was 


lOO 


A Workman’s Confessions. 


necessary to mount on' the roof without a 
ladder until I made one, round by round. 

Robert came to see us often enough. I no- 
ticed more than once that the little savings^ 
intended for some rare pleasure-party or foi; 
the toilet of Genevieve passed invariably from 
the drawer of the aunt into the pocket of the 
nephew. I did not complain, for it was easier 
for me to sacrifice this little money than to 
afflict the excellent creature ^ she made up for 
these little prodigalities by so much work, fru- 
gality, and economy that I had the appear-' 
ance of seeing nothing. In this I sought ra- 
ther my peace than her advantage, and if I had 
had more sense I should have understood that 
my duty was to enlighten her. Because the 
defects of those who live at our side are a lit- 
tle matter and cause us no inconvenience it is. 
not necessary to close the eyes, but, on the 
contrary, to look after and cure them. 

I had gone to Burgundy to look over some 
work which was soon to be awarded. My ab- 
sence was to last twelve days. Genevieve was 
alone with our boy, Marcel, who was only 
three years old. I have since learned from her 
what passed in my absence, and I will relate it. 


Sudden Misfortune. ioi 

The day after my departure Robert came to 
see her. He appeared troubled and low-spir- 
ited. To all quesliions he only responded by 
broken words and sighs. She kept him to din- 
ner, but he ate nothing and became still more 
sad. Concerned, she pressed him more ; then 
he said his life displeased him, and that some 
day he should throw it away like a pair of 
worn-out shoes. Genevieve, distressed, endeav- 
ored in vain to combat his discouragement ; 
the more shé talked the more Robert perse- 
vered ia his resolution, giving her to under- 
stand, even, that nothing else remained for 
him to do. His aunt pressed him for explana- 
tion ; but he persisted in his silence, intimat- 
ing a guilt which he did not wish to confess. 
'Quite frightened, she carried to his cradle the 
little Marcel, who had gone to sleep in her 
arms, and returned to Robert^ decided to get 
his secret from him. 

She found him with his elbows upon his 
knees and his head between his hands, like one 
in despair. Genevieve .said every thing to him 
that her affection could invent. She spoke to 
liim of his father, of thé promise that she had 
made of taking his place ; she named, oriê 


102 


A Workman’s Confessions. 


after another, all the faults she could suppose 
him guilty of, asking him to respond alone by 
a word or a sign ; but Robert always shook his 
head. Finally, at the end of all patience, she 
stopped, when he straightened up quickly and 
exclaimed that if he didn’t have one hundred 
louis for the next day he was ruined. Gene- 
vieve started back as if he had demanded the 
crown of France. 

“ One hundred louis ! ” she repeated ; “ and 
whom do you expect to give them to you ? 
Why do you need them ? What do you wish 
to do with them ? ” 

“ I owe them,” responded Robert. 

And as his aunt looked at him with an air 
of doubt he began to unroll for her the list of 
his dissipations for the past three years. He 
had about him creditors’ letters, unreceipted 
bills, and even assignments upon stamped 
paper; but the more he explained to Gene- 
vieve the more she waxed indignant and felt 
pity leave her. 

Well, then, since you have been able to 
spend such a sum you will have to earn it,” 
she said, resolutely. “ If I had it there in my 
apron and it belonged to me, and I had no use 


Sudden Misfortune. 103 

for it, you should not have the first penny! 
Ah, they have reason for saying that God 
loves us better than we love ourselves ! When 
he took my poor brother I had accused him in 
my heart, and now I see that he should have 
been thanked, for he has spared him grief and 
shame.’* 

‘‘Yes,’* interrupted Robert, with a sort of 
desperate audacity, ** more shame than you 
believe ; for I have not told all.” 

And what yet remains to be said, unhappy 
wretch ? ” cried Genevieve. 

Her nephew had risen, pale, and as if be- 
side himself. 

“Well, then,” he said, showing the letters 
of his creditors, “ it is necessary to pay all that 
under pain of going to prison, and I have 
paid it.” 

“You! How?” 

“ With a note.” 

She looked at him without comprehending. 

“ What note ? ” she demanded. 

“ A note signed with the name of your hus- 
band.” 

“ What do you say, wretched one. A for- 
gery ? 


104 A Workman’s Confessions. 

He lowered his head ; Genevieve wrung’her 
hands and cried. Both remained an instant 
without speaking. At last the aunt got up 
again, took Robert by the shoulders and shook 
him. 

“ You have lied to me ! ’’ she exclaimed ; 
“ you do not owe one hundred louis ; you 
have not forged 9. note ; you wish to draw the 
money from me.*^’ 

The young man raised his head and red- 
dened. 

“Ah! I have lied,” he stammered; “well, 
then, it is no use; let us say no more 
about it.” 

He took his hat and suddenly went out. 

Genevieve let him go ; but she passed a terri- 
ble night. She bolted upright at every noise, 
believing that they came to inform her of the 
arrest or death of Robert ; she accused herself 
of hardness. Twice she put on her shawl to 
run to the lodging of her nephew, and twice a 
doubt that she could not dismiss retained her. 
The next day, toward the middle of the after- 
noon, an unknown man with great whiskers 
and covered with rings and charms presented 
himself with three notes, signed with my name. 


Sudden Misfortune. 105 

They were the forgeries of which Robert had 
spoken ! 

When she saw them Genevieve became very 
pale, so pale that the stranger, who called him- 
self Dumanoir, raised his eyebrows ; finally, 
not knowing what to say, she asked him whom 
he held for their value. 

“You can see," the stranger replied, show- 
ing on the backside the signatures of three or 
four indorsers. 

“And you have need — immediately — of 
money ? " said my wife, more and more troub- 
led. 

“ Parbleu ! " he replied, “ I have two pay- 
ments to make to-morrow, and I counted upon 
my returns. They told me your husband was 
good ; I hope that they have not deceived 
me!" 

In speaking thus he narrowly watched Gene- 
vieve, who said no more, but began to weep. 

“Eh!" cried Dumanoir, “tears! Are 
these, by chance, all you have to give me ? 
But are you not solvent then ? Have you not 
the one hundred louis ? Ah ! a thousand 
thunders! I am ruined ! " 

He then got up with so many curses and 


io6 A Workman’s Confessions. 

menaces against me that my poor frightened 
wife revealed every thing. At the announce- 
ment that the notes were forged Dumanoir 
made a bound. 

So I am robbed Î ” he cried ; “ and by 
whom ? You know the forger, you are inter- 
ested in him, for you did not at once reveal 
the fraud. I wish you to tell me who he is or 
I will denounce you. I will have you con- 
demned as his accomplice.” 

Genevieve was about to reply when the door 
suddenly opened. It was Robert. At the 
cry that she made Dumanoir turned toward 
the young man, who, seeing the notes between 
his hands, fell upon his knees. 

There was then a scene which my wife has 
never been able to describe to me, because 
when she thinks of it the unhappiness of it 
overcomes her power of utterance. All that 
I have knowm is that after many tears and 
prayers, seeing that the man with the notes 
had decided to arrest Robert, and the latter 
clinging to the window from which he threat- 
ened to throw himself to the court below, her 
heart could no longer keep her back. She ran 
to the secretary, which served me for cash- 


Sudden Misfortune. 107 

box, took three hundred and fifty francs, which 
were all my reserve, and offered them to ^et 
back the notes. The creditor appeared at 
first to hesitate, but upon the observation that 
Robert was without resource and that in re- 
fusing this offer he would lose all, the ex- 
change was made and Dumanoir left. After 
having rapidly thanked his aunt Robert fol- 
lowed him. 

There was in his accent and his attitude so 
sudden a change that Genevieve was struck. 
Left alone and relieved of her emotion, she 
recalled all that had taken place and found 
something singular in it. The more she re- 
flected the more the words and actions of 
Robert left her in doubt. She could not say 
what she suspected, but she felt that there 
was somewhere a lie ! She hoped for enlight- 
enment at the next visit of the young man. 
Two days passed without his re-appearing. 
Genevieve, whose disquietude increased, con- 
fided Marcel to a neighbor and hastened to 
seek him in the Rue Bertin-Poirée. 

Reaching the fifth story at the landing of 
the little chamber inhabited by Robert, she 
saw the door open and an evil-faced man come 


io8 A Workman’s Confessions. 

oiit holding^ a packet.' Although changed in 
costume, and no more wearing the large whisk-^ 
ers, she recognized Dumahoir! Profiting by 
the movement of surprise which held 'her for 
an instant speechless, he quickly passed and 
descended. Genevieve pushed open Robert’s 
door; there was no one there; but the fur- 
niture drawers had ‘nothing in them, the 
closets were open and empty ; some worn- 
out clothes were scattered about the floor. 
Surprised at this disorder, she went down- 
stairs to the porter’s lodge to ask explanations 
of him. The porter knew nothing and had 
seen nothing. All he could say was that 
Robert had entered the evening before with 
the man that she had passed on the stairs; 
they both appeared to be in a joyous mood 
and jingled gold coins in their pockets; 
Genevieve could no more doubt ; the scene of 
the notes was a comedy, agreed upon between 
Robert and the pretended creditor ; they had 
counted upon her fright, upon her feebleness ; 
she was the victim of a swindle of which the 
son of her brother was the inventor. This idea 
was like the stroke of a knife in her heart. She 
put it from her ; she waited for Robert all the 


Sudden Misfortune. 109 

evening and yet the next day. She could not 
doubt, and yet she could not believe. Grief, 
indignation, disquietude, tormented her turn 
by turn. When I arrived she had lost for five 
days sleep and appetite. I found her so 
much changed that, alarmed, I demanded if 
she were sick. 

. “ It is much worse,” she replied to me in a 
choking voice. - . 

And without waiting my questions, like one 
who has need of easing her mind, she began; 
telling me in broken phrases what had passed 
since my departure. When she came to the 
three hundred and fifty francs given to Rob- 
ert I interrupted by an exclamation of fright., 
I believed I had misunderstood, and ran to 
the secretary. The hiding-place held only the 
empty bag. My throat grew parched; my legs 
trembled so it was necessary to support myself, 
against the wall. Genevieve regarded me 
with wide-open eyes, her hands limply hang- 
ing, .her lips trembling like: one in a fever,; 
Seeing, her in this condition, the anger which 
filled my heart relaxed and I said to her very 
gently : . . 

“You have given the money; I shall not be 


no A Workman’s Confessions. 

able to pay what I owe; that is all; we are 
ruined ! ” 

In fact, I had three notes due the next day, 
and this reserve fund was intended to satisfy 
them. Its disappearance deranged all my 
calculations, destroyed my credit. I made 
Genevieve comprehend the situation. The 
poor creature was so startled that I wished to 
hide my own torment. 

This good impulse made me content with 
myself and relieved my heart. The courage 
which I had at first shown through love for 
Genevieve came to me, little by little. I was 
still young ; I had done no wrong ; I felt that 
all my strength remained to begin over again. 
The important thing at this time was to honor 
my engagements. I spoke to Genevieve 
quietly, tenderly, like a man. I said to her 
that nothing was desperate, but that it was 
necessary to renounce for the moment all the 
little comforts of the house, keeping only the 
indispensable things and accepting again the 
coarser life of the poorer workmen. She re- 
sponded only by weeping and pressing my 
hands when I had finished. 

“ Ah, you are still better than I believed,” 


Sudden Misfortune. hi 

she said to me. I only ask one more thing 
of the good God, and that is to let me live 
long enough to pay you for your kindness.” 

God has listened to her prayer, and she has 
fulfilled her promise, for that which she called 
my kindness has been paid in happiness, inter- 
est and principal. 

That same evening I called upon the other 
builders of my acquaintance and made over to 
them some jobs for a little ready money which 
would pay for my materials. Meantime, Gene- 
vieve had called in some furniture-dealers 
and sold the better part of our movables. 
All together made up the sum of which I 
stood in need. My notes were paid without 
default. 

But the breakdown had been noticeable ; 
every one knew that I had again re-entered 
the regiment of the needy, and withdrew from 
me the consideration which had hitherto been 
accorded me. It was useless for me to bid for 
little contracts ; no one any more wished to 
make me advances nor to give credit ; they 
saw my downfall without considering my hon- 
esty. As a last unhappiness, Mauricet was 
absent ; the need pressed ; it was necessary 


1 12 A Workman’s Confessions. 

to resume the trowel and live by day’s 
wages. 

And still Robert had not yet re-appeared. In 
spite of all, Genevieve kept for him an in- 
curable affection ; I saw that she was sad be- 
cause she did not know what had beco ne of 
him. Two months had passed, and for my 
part I endeavored to forget the nephew, when 
a policeman presented himself in my home. 
Happily, I was alone. He showed me a bit 
of paper with my name and address half ef- 
faced ; they had found it upon a murdered 
man. A little troubled, I followed the officer 
to the morgue and there I recognized the 
corpse of Robert. He had still around his 
neck the cord and the stone that they had tied 
to him to drown him. The accomplice of his 
theft had wished to profit alone, and, as it so 
often happens, the crime had been punished 
by a new crime. 

Genevieve knew the thing only a long time 
after. So far the murderers have not been 
discovered; perhaps they have submitted in 
their turn to the fate which they had meted 
out to Robert, for in evil as in good it is 
rare that one does not harvest that which 


Sudden Misfortune. 113 

he sows. In regard to us, the recollection of 
the unhappy being who had thrown his wick- 
edness across our happiness was soon lost in 
the hardest trials ; the bad days approached, 
and we were going to be, as Friend Mauricet 
said, guaranteed the storm without cape or 

umbrella. 

8 


1 14 A Workman’s Confessions. 


CHAPTER X. 

UPHILL WORK. 

I T is a hard thing to come down again in life 
after one has once climbed up, and black 
bread seems hard to chew when the teeth have 
begun to soften on white bread. I presented 
a good face to this bad fortune ; but at bottom 
I felt a suppressed vexation which made me 
unhappy and gave, as they say, a bad taste to 
life. Although she had a determined air 
Genevieve was no more resigned. We both 
sang to defy our ill fortune, but not for gayety. 
For fear of exposing our hearts we kept silent, 
enveloping our sadness in our pride and grow- 
ing slightly hardened. I felt it, but without 
power to do otherwise. I was like one who 
totters ; to remain upright it was necessary to 
be rigid. 

One evening I returned from work with the 
sack upon my shoulder, and I walked the streets 
whistling. I went without hurrying, for the 
sight of my home did not rejoice my eye as 


Uphill Work. 


115 

formerly. I could not accustom myself to the 
empty gaps in the furnishings, to the walls 
without hangings, and, above all, to the care- 
worn air of Genevieve. Formerly all was 
neat and cheerful, every thing welcomed me ; 
within there was an eternal ray of the sun ; but 
since our downfall one would have said that the 
cardinal points had changed ; from the south we 
found ourselves carried to the north. I passed 
along then with short steps, without much no- 
ticing a fine snow which fell as through a sifter 
and powdered the icy roadway. Having nearly 
reached the end of the faubourg, I perceived 
an old woman wearily pushing before her one 
of those small wagons which are the rolling 
shops of the people of Paris. The ice ren- 
dered the task doubly laborious. The snow 
streaked the great wool sh^wl in which she 
was enveloped and filled the folds of the hand- 
kerchief upon her head. She breathed with 
difficulty, stopping at each minute with spent 
strength, then redoubling her effort. I was 
filled, involuntarily, with pity. The mem- 
ory of my mother crossed my mind, and I 
joined the vender, who had stopped for 
breath. 


ii6 A Workman’s Confessions. 

“ Hallo, old woman,” I said to her, smiling, 
“ that is too much for you.” 

That is the truth, my son,” she responded, 
wiping her face where the sweat mingled with 
the snow ; “ strength goes with age while the 
load always keeps its weight ; but the good God 
does every thing well ; he will not abandon the 
poor people.” 

I asked her where she was going. She pointed 
out the way to me and was about to proceed. 
I then put my hand upon one of the shafts. 

Let me,” I said to her gently; ‘Ht is my 
road. It will cost me no more to go over it 
with your barrow.” 

And without waiting her response I pushed 
the cart before me. The old woman made no 
resistance ; she simply thanked me and walked 
at my side. I learned then that she had come 
from buying provisions at the markets which 
she was to sell again. Whatever the season or 
the weather she continued to run about Paris 
until she had disposed of her load. For thirty 
years she had lived by this trade, which had 
yielded her the means of raising three sons.” 

“ But when I had them, tall and strong, 
they took them away from me,” said the poor 


Uphill Work. 


1 17 

woman. “Two have died in the army and 
the last is upon an English prison-ship.” 

“ So,” I exclaimed, “ you find yourself alone 
without other resource than your courage ! ” 

“ And the Protector of those who have no 
other,” she added. “ The good God must have 
something to do in his paradise ; and how would 
he pass his time if he did not take care of 
creatures like me? I can tell you, when one 
is old and miserable the idea that the King of 
all regards you, that he judges you and keeps 
your account, that sustains you ! When I am 
so tired that my feet can no longer carry 
me, well, then I get onto my knees and say to 
him softly what troubles me, and when I get 
up I always have a lighter heart. You are still 
too young to feel this, but a day will come 
W'hen you will comprehend why they teach 
little children to say, “ Our Father who art in 
heaven ! ” 

I did not answer. I felt that light was come ! 
The old woman continued to talk in the same 
way as far as the end of the faubourg. In all 
her great trials she had sought a consolation 
higher than earth in a world where nothing 
could change. Listening to her speech my 


iiS A Workman’s Confessions. 

heart throbbed. I regarded this limping old 
woman, with her shaking head already bent aà 
if to take up her winding-sheet, and I was as- 
tonished to find her stronger than Genevieve 
and I. It was, then, true that man had need of 
another point of support than men, and that to 
keep himself firmly upon this scaffolding which 
composes his life it is necessary to have a cord 
knotted in the heavens ! 

When I left the old woman near the city gate 
she thanked me ; but, in truth, it was I who 
owed her gratitude, for she had re-awakened 
ideas which had slept in the depths of my mind. 
I reached home quite preoccupied with my en- 
counter. This evening — why, I did not know 
— Genevieve was uncommonly sad ; it seemed 
to me even that her eyes were red. We supped 
and said nothing. The child slept. Then we 
sat near the dying embers of the fire. It was 
only when the clock struck that Genevieve got 
up with a sigh. It was the bed-time hour. 
Then I got up also. I took the hand of the 
dear woman and drew her against my shoulder. 

“ It is too long a time that we have carried 
our grief all alone,’' I said to her in a low voice ; 
“ let us ask God to take his part." 


Uphill Work. 


1 19 

And I knelt ; Genevieve did the same, say- 
ing nothing. I began then to repeat all the 
prayers I had ever learned in my childhood 
and which have remained since like a deposit 
in a corner of my heart. As the words returned 
to my memory they seemed to find a sense 
which I had never grasped before ; it was a 
language which I comprehended for the first 
time. I cannot say whether something similar 
passed through the mind of Genevieve, but I 
soon heard her quietly weeping. When I got 
up she embraced me, sobbing. 

“You have had an idea which saves us,” 
she said to me. “ Now that you have made 
me think again of God I feel that I can regain 
my courage ! ” 

And, in fact, from that day every thing went 
better in the house. Our hearts were relieved 
of their tension. We began again to have 
better thoughts. The evening prayer was al- 
ways reposeful and softening. Poor old wom- 
an ! While she told me the story of her life 
she hardly knew what good she did me. I 
have never since seen her. but more than once 
Genevieve and I have blessed her. 

“It is easy to see that the times of the good 


120 A Workman’s Confessions. 

fairies have not yet passed,” she said to me, 
“ since you have found one who for payment 
of a light service has given you a talisman of 
resignation.” 

Although forced to return to the trowel I 
had not lost hope of again undertaking con- 
tracts, and it often distressed me to see desir- 
able jobs pass into other hands. One in par- 
ticular tempted me because of its profit. It 
was needful, unhappily, to attempt it to ad- 
vance some hundred francs ! I returned to the 
stone-yard sad enough because of my inability 
to seize so happy a chance, when two large 
hands grasped me by the shoulders. I quickly 
turned ; it was Mauricet. 

The master-mason, kept now for many 
months in Burgundy, had returned to Paris 
upon business, leaving again the same evening. 
He made me go into an eating-house, and, in 
spite of all I could say, forced me to eat a second 
breakfast with him. Prosperity had fattened 
Mauricet, who was dressed in a splendid vest 
of fine cloth, a long-haired beaver, and a cherry- 
silk cravat. The heart was the same, but the 
tone had raised a notch. Mauricet was full of 
self-confidence since he found himself at the 


Uphill Work. 


I2I 


head of twenty workmen. I had always seen 
him so modest that his assurance appeared to 
me simply the consciousness of his prosperity. 

Since his arrival in Paris he had been vaguely 
informed of my downfall and wished to know 
all about it. When I had told him the; facts 
he struck the table with the sealed bottle of 
Bordeaux which he had ordered in spite of my 
refusal to drink. 

thousand thunders! Why didn’t you 
write about the thing to me ? ” he exclaimed. 

I should have found enough money to settle 
your business. What are you doing now 
Come ! Where are you ? Cannot I put a little 
chalk into your mortar ? ” 

I made known to him my position, saying a 
word of the job which presented itself. 

‘‘ And you only need five hundred francs? 
asked Mauricet. 

I replied that this sum would suffice me and 
more. He immediately called ; a waiter en- 
tered. 

“ A pen and ink ! ” demanded the mason. 

I looked at him with surprise. 

“You do not understand what I wish to do 
with this trash here; is it not true? ” he laugh- 


122 


A Workman’s Confessions. 


ingly said to me. “ In fact, I am no more art 
advocate of the black and the white than in the 
past ; but it is necessary to bray for the donkeys. 
When I saw then that they could only do busi- 
ness with the quill and the inkstand, my faith, 
I said, ^ Bring up the rear-guard ! ’ And to-day 
I use them like any one else.” 

You have learned to write ! ” I exclaimed. 

You shall see ! ” said Mauricet, winking his 
eye at me. 

He had drawn from a portfolio a stamped 
paper, upon which he made me write a draft 
for five hundred francs. When I had finished 
it he signed his name in unequally written letters 
in imitation of print. 

Now,” he said to me, when the painful 
operation was completed, “ present this to 
Périgaux, and you shall have your money on 
the spot. The signature of Father Mauricet is 
known in their shop, and I can procure money 
when I wish.” 

They gave me the money in reality without 
any difficulty, and the next day I undertook the 
job for which it was designed. Every thing 
went well at first. The work was quickly car- 
ried on and finished before the time set. I had 


Uphill Work. 


123 

been able from the first payments to return to 
Mauricet his money. This new venture brought 
me into the sWim again, and I began to feel my- 
self rising, when a lawsuit against our principal 
contractor stopped every thing. My fate and 
that of ten others were intimately connected 
with his. We found our hands tied without 
any means of acting or of drawing out. In the 
meantime, the individual obligations of each one 
remained ; the period of payment for unused 
materials arrived ; the dues succeeded one an- 
other pitilessly. It was necessary to face all the 
attacks with “ arms at support,” as they say; 
find each day some new expedient ; obtain 
terms, to carry forward, to balance debts and 
credits. My days were employed in this profit- 
less work. I gained nothing, and my resources 
were becoming exhausted. While I employed 
my time saving myself from failure Genevieve 
and the child lacked necessaries. 

I racked my brains without power of hasten- 
ing matters. The lawsuit was always about to 
be judged and yet was ceaselessly deferred. 
One day some paper had been forgotten, an- 
other day the lawyer was absent, the tribunal 
took a vacation, or the opponent had asked an 


124 A Workman’s Confessions. 

adjournment ! Meanwhile, the weeks and the 
months ran along. Our poor home resembled 
those crews becalmed in mid-ocean, who each 
day reduce the ration, looking in vain to the 
horizon to see if the clouds announce the return 
of the wind. I have had hard trials in my life, 
but none comparable to this. Ordinarily, the 
misfortunes which strike us leave room for 
action ; one can seek solace or salvation in 
work ; but here all efforts were useless ; there 
was nothing to do but cross the arms and wait. 

At length this powerlessness rendered me 
gloomy and fretful. Without knowing any one 
else to blame, I found fault with Genevieve ; 
taking no account of the poor creature’s efforts 
to disguise from me our misery, of her work to 
soften it, one would have said that I wished the 
privations which she supported. At the boU 
tom my irritation was still that of love ; it came 
of my grief in seeing her suffer. I would have 
given my blood, drop by drop, to buy her com- 
fort and repose of spirit ; but my good-will was 
changed to bad humor because of my lack of 
success ; it was like a thorn-hedge upon which 
I tore her in vexation because I was unable to 
make a covering to defend her. 


Uphill Work. 


125 


One day in particular I returned more soured 
than common. I had passed three hours with 
the lawyer, who chatted with his friends and 
whom I heard laugh while I was gnawed at the 
heart. It was necessary to wait the end of their 
jolly stories; then, when my turn was come, I 
found a man who yawned in listening to me, 
who knew nothing of my business, and by 
whom I had been directed to his first clerk, 
then absent. I returned home then, swelling 
with wrath against the dispensers of justice who 
file away in their boxes our fortune, our repose, 
our honor, and who, often as not, do not know 
even what they have given them to protect. 
To finish me, I had been refused the payment 
of my last bill. 

As if every thing sought to irritate my melan- 
choly, I found Genevieve in a festive mood. 
She went about singing and received me with 
a joyous exclamation. I rudely asked her what 
happy thing had happened since my departure, 
if we had received a fortune from America. 
She responded pleasantly, put her arm about 
my neck, and led me to the almanac suspended 
against the chimney. 

“ Well, then ?” I demanded. 


126 A Workman’s Confessions. 


“ Well, then ! Do you not see the day, sir ? ” 
she said, gayly ; “ it is the twenty-fifth.” 

Yes,” I replied, ill-humoredly, releasing my- 
self ; “ and soon it will be the thirtieth, the day 
when my notes fall due. A plague upon the 
notes and the almanacs ! ” 

She had an air of grieved astonishment. 

What has happened, Peter Henry ? ” she re- 
sumed, uneasily ; “ have you learned some bad 
news ? ” 

“ I have learned nothing, as usual.” 

Then,” she continued, passing an arm 
through mine, “ put over your anxieties until 
to-morrow and keep to-day for happiness.” 

. I looked at her in a way to prove that I did 
not understand. 

“ Come, ugly man ! ” she said, poutingly, 
“ don’t you know that it is the anniversary of 
our marriage ? ” 

I had in reality forgotten it. The years pre- 
ceding this anniversary were occasions of rejoic- 
ing and tender feeling, but this tjme it was quite 
otherwise. The recollection of past happiness 
rendered the present sufferings more bitter. 
The comparison which I had made in my 
thought excited within me a sort of despair, 


Uphill Work. 


27 


and I dropped into a chair muttering maledic- 
tions. Genevieve, dismayed, wished to know 
what was the matter. 

‘‘What is the matter? ” I cried. “God par- 
don me ! One would say that you had never 
heard me speak of it ! What is the matter ? 
Well, then, to be sure ! I have debts which I 
cannot pay and creditors who will not wait. I 
have a lawsuit w'hich will ruin me while I wait 
to gain it. I have three mouths to feed every 
day without any other resource than two arms 
which cannot work. Ah! What is the matter? 
do you ask? I regret now that I did not 
break my back the day I fell from the build- 
ing, because then I was only a workman with- 
out obligations and without family, and only 
a coffin at four francs would have settled my 
account ! ” 

All this was said with a frenzy which made 
the dear woman tremble ; she looked at me, 
the tears coming in her eyes. 

“ In the name of God, Peter Henry, speak 
no more in this way,” she said to me; “ never 
tell me that you regret living unless you wish 
also to make me die. You have been tor- 
mented all day, poor man, and you are beside 


128 A Workman’s Confessions. 

yourself ; but forget for to-day these affairs 
and think only of those who love you.” 

I would perhaps have done what she asked, 
for her voice had touched my heart, when 
there was a knock at the door ; a policeman 
entered. 

Pardon me,” he said, politely ; “ I have 
come up because you are breaking the regula- 
tions, and that I must report you on account 
of the pot of flowers in your window.” 

I was going to reply that he was mistaken 
when Genevieve ran to the window-ledge and 
quickly withdrew a gillyflower, still wrapped in 
its leaf of white paper. She declared that she 
had just returned from buying it and put it in 
that place, where it was safely retained by 
many bars. The policeman listened patiently 
to all her explanations ; but, after having 
stated the. law regarding the offense, he took 
our names, informed us that we would have 
to present ourselves before the police court 
and pay the fine, and, saluting us, retired. 

This unexpected interruption and the pros- 
pect of new expense to which we were going 
to be condemned rudely checked my return- 
ing good humor. When Genevieve wished to 


Uphill Work. 


129 


speak to me I got up exasperated, cursing the 
caprice which came thus to suddenly add to 
our misery. I strode up and down, talking in 
a loud, excited voice, while my wife, pale and 
trembling, looked at me, saying nothing. I 
had broken out when she had endeavored to 
speak, and now her silence increased my anger 
Beside myself, I seized the flower-pot, first 
cause of the dispute, and started for the win- 
dow to throw it into the street, when a cry 
from Genevieve stopped me. The poor 
woman was near the cradle of the baby, whom 
I had waked up ; she pressed one hand against 
her breast and her other was extended to- 
ward me. 

Don’t break it, Peter Henry,” she said to 
me in a voice which I shall never forget ; it 
is the flower of our anniversary ! ” ^ 

I held the gillyflower between my hands, 
hesitating about what I should do with it. I re- 
called, then, that every year at this season Gene- 
vieve had celebrated the date of our marriage 
by the purchase of one of these flowers which 
my mother had cultivated at the Bois-Riant. 
At this thought I felt a shaking within me ; 

all my anger suddenly left me, it burst like a 

9 


130 A Workman's Confessions. 

fountain from my heart. Genevieve immedi- 
ately ran toward me and threw herself with 
the child into my arms. 

When all was pardoned and forgotten we 
sat down to the supper-table. What had hap- 
pened had hindered my wife from preparing 
any thing ; I would not let her go out to get 
what we lacked. We supped gayly upon 
bread and radishes, the gillyflower in the midst 
of the table perfuming our feast. 


Father Mauricet’s Trouble. 13 i 


CHAPTER XL 

FATHER MAURICET’S TROUBLE. 

\ ^ 7 E had obtained a judgment which recog- 
^ * nized our right and assured a part of 
our debt upon the security of the contractor, 
but the formalities had not yet been all ful- 
filled. Genevieve and I were put to all sorts 
of expedients, living by chance and never hav- 
ing in the cupboard bread for the next day. 
My days were divided between some passing 
work, running between the parties interested 
in the lawsuit, and visits to the palace of jus- 
tice. I have thought since that it would have 
been wiser to have surrendered all and begun 
afresh, like the child newly born ; but I was 
allured by these few thousand francs which 
they showed to me always in perspective, and 
I could not dismiss my hope. 

Months thus passed. I had lost the habit 
of regular occupation, my life was deranged. 
Instead of making my way with the workers 
I found myself stopped among those poor* 


132 A Workman's Confessions. 

wretches who eat their dry bread to the fumes 
of a roast on the spit which is constantly prom- 
ised them and which always turns. I em- 
ployed the present to keep in the line to the 
gate of the future. 

On top of it all the child fell very sick. I 
was forced to go to my business and leave all the 
cares to Genevieve ; but at the first moment of 
liberty I hastily returned. The malady did 
not decrease ; on the contrary I heard the 
wails of the poor creature and its stifled breath- 
ing. When its mother or I leaned over its 
bed it extended its little hands and looked at 
us with a supplicating air ; it had the appear- 
ance of asking mercy. Accustomed to receive 
every thing from us, it believed that we could 
give it health ! Our voices, our caresses, en- 
couraged it a moment ; then the suffering seized 
it again ; it repulsed us ; it seemed to reproach 
us ; it twisted its little limbs with cries which 
cut us to the heart. At first I had combated 
the mother’s fears, but at length I felt incapa- 
ble of saying any thing ; I stood there with 
crossed arms, displeased at her despair, which 
augmented my own, and not having the 
strength to give her any hope. The doctor 


Father Mauricet’s Trouble. 133 

also kept his counsel ; he came to the child’s 
cradle, made a hasty examination, ordered 
what he wished, and then disappeared without 
a word of consolation ; one would have said it 
was an architect visiting mortar and stones. 
Sometimes I would have stopped him, grasp- 
ing him by the arms and crying to him to 
speak and take away from us the illusion or the 
care; but he was too quick for me ; that which 
was for us the source of so much anguish was 
for him only his day’s employ. 

O, the sad hours, my God ! passed near this 
little bed ! What long and cheerless nights ! 
How I have desired at spells the power to 
hasten the time, thus reaching at once the 
depth of my wretchedness ! I have since re- 
called having read that such an experience 
was still one of God’s kindnesses. In making 
us feel so much anguish he renders us less 
sensitive to the last stroke ; the unhappiness 
of the waiting makes it desirable ; our thought 
runs to meet it, and when the blow strikes us 
we accept it as a solace. 

After an illness of fifteen days the child 
died. I was prepared for it, but it seems that 
Genevieve was not. Mothers never give up 


134 A Workman’s Confessions. 

those whom they have brought into the world ; 
they cannot believe in the possibility of being 
separated from them. The days passed by ; 
nothing consoled my poor wife. I found her 
seated before the empty cradle or handling 
the little garments of the dead child, giving to 
each one a tear and a kiss. I had reasoned 
with her and chided, she listening to me pa- 
tiently without raising her head, like a poor 
heart whose spring is broken. This despond- 
ency finally infected me. I relaxed in my 
turn ; I took no interest in anything; I passed 
entire hours standing before the window drum- 
ming upon the glass and gazing out abstract- 
edly. We both became benumbed by our 
grief. 

We had not seen Mauricet in the two 
years that he had lived in Burgundy ; they 
had only told me that the old master-work- 
man was engaged in great enterprises. Two 
or three times I had had the idea of informing 
him of my embarrassment and of asking him 
for a stroke on the shoulder ; I hardly know 
what pride had restrained me. Now that I 
supposed him among the great financiers I 
was less at ease with him ; I feared that he 


Father Mauricet’s Trouble. 135 

would suspect me of wishing to trade on our 
old friendship. 

We had, then, the seeming of being a little 
forgotten, when, one evening, I saw the new 
contractor arrive, not in a carriage, as I should 
have expected, but on foot and covered with 
a traveler’s blouse over his other clothes. He 
descended from the diligence and came to us 
asking dinner. 

At the first glance I saw a change in him. 
He talked as freely and as loudly as ever, he 
laughed at every turn, was restless, and asked 
more questions than he waited replies ; but 
all this movement and all this talk appeared 
forced ; his gayety was feverish. He scarcely 
spoke to us of the death of our child ; when I 
wished to speak of my affairs he interrupted me 
to talk of his own. He brought notes and 
memoranda which he explained to me, begging 
me at the same time to put them in order. Al- 
though his manners had a little repulsed me 
I did as he desired. During this work Mauri- 
cet paced about the chamber, his hands in his 
pockets, and softly whistling. From time to 
time he stopped before the sheet of paper 
which I had covered with figures as if he had 


136 A Workman’s Confessions. 

wished to divine the result ; then he resumed 
his whistling and his walking. It took much 
time to complete the calculation ; when I had 
finished I made it known to the master-work- 
man ; the liabilities w’ere almost double the 
assets. At the announcement of this result 
Mauricet could not restrain an exclamation : 

“Are you certain of the thing?” he de- 
manded in an accent which seemed to me 
altered. 

I explained to him the reasons which must 
necessarily bring this result. The first was the 
numerous loans and the accumulations of in- 
terest, with which he had seemed not to 
trouble himself. In the absence of written 
accounts, he had evidently deceived himself. 
He listened to my explanations, supporting 
both hands upon the table and gazing into my 
face. 

“I comprehend, I comprehend!” he said, 
when I had finished ; “ I have let enter into 
my stable all the horses they wished to lend 
me, without thinking their forage would ruin 
me. See where one is led when he does not 
know how to make your little fly-tracks and 
doesn’t know your conjuring book. Those who 


Father Mauricet’s Trouble. 137 

have not a head for books ought to do busi- 
ness from hand to hand, and not throw in the 
papers. They are like the river, you see, 
which always finishes by drowning itself.” 

I asked him with concern if there were no 
other resources than those which I had noted 
and if this was his entire schedule. 

“Not at all, not at all!” he quickly con- 
tinued. “You tell me there are twenty-three 
thousand francs lacking ? Well, then ! I’ll 
find them ; they are elsewhere.” 

And as I insisted more strongly, “ When I 
tell you that all can be arranged ! ” he inter- 
rupted with impatience ; “ it was only to see, 
as they say, to the bottom of the well, and 
now it is done. Twenty-three thousand francs 
deficit ! Well, then, that is good ; the rest I 
will go all alone. Let us dine, my old friend ; 
I am as hungry as thirty wolves.” 

In spite of this last affirm'ation he ate hardly 
any thing; but to make up he smoked very much 
and talked still more ; one would have said that 
he sought to forget himself. When we left 
the table the day began to wane. Mauricet 
gathered his papers, put them in order, re- 
garded some time the account which I had 


138 A Workman’s Confessions. 

drawn up as if he had been able to read 
it ; he said nothing, but it seemed to me that 
his hand trembled. He afterward put them 
all upon the table and began walking again up 
and down the room, and finally asked where 
our son was ! 

Genevieve turned with a cry ; I looked him 
in the face stupefied. When the child had 
died we had written him, and since he had 
arrived we had spoken of this loss ; he per- 
ceived his distraction and took his head be- 
tween his hands. 

“ What ! Is there, then, no more brain 
here ! ” he murmured in a sort of rage. “ Par- 
don me, friends; it is the fault of Peter Henry; 
he has made me drink too much ; but no mat- 
ter ; I should not have been able to forget 
your grief.” 

He sat down and remained some time in 
deep dejection. I asked him again if his af- 
fairs disturbed him. 

“Why is this?” he suddenly continued, 
“ Have I complained ? Have I asked any 
thing?” And softening, all at once, “ Hold! 
let us not speak any more of business,” he 
resumed ; “ let us talk of you and Genevieve. 


Father Mauricet’s Trouble. 139 

You are always happy; is it not true? When 
one loves, when one is young, and when 
one owes nothing ! Ah ! if I were of your 
age, I! But what! Youth cannot be and 
have been ; each one his turn. I have al- 
ready seen go by a part of those of my time — 
your father Jerome, Madeleine, and many 
others still ! Away with sadness ! Let us live 
until death takes us.” 

I was astonished at these signs of incoher- 
ence. Mauricet had not drank enough to be 
affected to this extent ; his cheerfulness did 
not re-assure me ; I saw in him a wandering 
air which disturbed me. As he laughed alone 
he soon stopped. Genevieve spoke gently to 
him of his children in the country, who were 
prospering in a small way. Then he softened 
and praised them at length ; afterward he broke 
off suddenly, got up with a desperate effort, 
and said in a broken voice : 

“ Come, come, friends, we have talked 
enough ; the moment has come for me to at- 
tend to my affairs.” 

He looked some time for his hat, which was 
before him, fumbled with it as if he could not 
find his head, made a step toward the door. 


140 A Workman’s Confessions. 


then stopped to take out his watch, which he 
placed upon his papers. 

“ I had better leave you every thing,” he 
said, stammering ; “ I should lose them ; it is 
safer here.” 

We endeavored to retain him. He refused. 
I then wished to go with him. He grew angry 
and quickly left ; but, getting half-way down the 
stairs, he returned. 

“ Come, come,” he said, let us not leave 
each other with bad feelings ! ” 

He embraced my wife, pressed my hand, and 
disappeared. 

We lingered upon the landing, much dis- 
turbed. When we no more heard his steps 
upon the stairs Genevieve turned quickly to- 
ward me. 

“ O, Peter Henry, there is something the 
matter with him ! ” she said. 

“ That is my thought,” I responded. 

“ We must not leave Mauricet to himself.” 

“ But he gets angry if I wish to follow 
him.” 

“ Let us go together,” she continued, tying 
her bonnet and putting on a little woolen 
shawl. 


Father Mauricet’s Trouble. 141 

I ran for my hat, and we descended. Night 
had come, and we could not see Mauricet. We 
took our course to the first street turning. 
There, by good luck, we recognized the master- 
workman. He walked with a step sometime 
quick, sometime slow, making gestures, speak- 
ing in a high voice ; but we could not hear what 
he said. He followed many streets at hazard, 
turning sometimes upon his steps like a man 
who takes no care about his route. Finally he 
struck the markets, and from there turned to- 
ward the quays. 

Reaching the Pont du Châtelet he stopped 
again, then turned suddenly toward one of the 
slopes which descend to the river. Genevieve 
pressed my arm with a stifled cry. The same 
thought had come to us both. We ran to- 
gether. The night was already black. Mauri- 
cet glided before us like a shadow. He was 
hidden under one of the bridge arches. When 
I got there he had taken off his coat and was 
approaching the water, which swirled in a great 
whirlpool at the foot of a pier. He heard us 
coming. He wished to throw himself in before 
we reached him. I only had time to seize him 
by the middle of the body. He turned with a 


142 A Workman’s Confessions. 

curse, the darkness hindering his seeing me ; 
he recognized me only by my voice. 

“ What are you doing here ? What do you 
wish ?” he cried. “ Did I not tell you to leave 
me alone ? Take away your hands, Peter 
Henry ! A thousand thunders ! I tell you, let 
me go ! ” 

“No, I shall not leave you ! ” I exclaimed, 
trying to force him back toward the bank. 

He made an effort to release himself. 

“ But you do not comprehend, wretch, that 
I am ruined ! ” he cried. “ I can no more do 
honor to my signature ! Curse the day that I 
learned to put it upon paper ! While I did not 
know how to write I kept my reputation faith- 
fully ; I had not bound myself by these notes, 
which God confound ! But now the thing is 
done there is no more going back, I must be a 
bankrupt or die. I have chosen ! Do not op- 
pose me, Peter Henry. I am in a moment, you 
see, when nothing shall stop me ! I am capa- 
ble of any thing. In the name of God, or of 
the devil, leave me ! ” 

He struggled with fury. In spite of my re- 
sistance he would have escaped me, when Gene- 
vieve threw her arms around his neck and cried : 


Father Mauricet’s Trouble. 143 

** Mauricet, think of your children ! 

This was like the stroke of a club. The un- 
happy man groaned. I felt him totter, and he 
fell sitting upon the sand. We heard him weep. 
Genevieve knelt at his side, I on the other, and 
we began to encourage him, weeping with him 
also ; but I found nothing good to say to him, 
while each word of Genevieve went to his heart. 
There is no one like the women for this sci- 
ence ! The master-workman, a moment before 
so terrible, was now like an infant, incapable of 
resistance. He told us, sobbing, all that he had 
suffered in the past eight days since he began 
to see clearly into his affairs. I understood 
then that his incapacity to keep accounts had 
been the true cause of his ruin. Carried away 
by the current of a large business, nothing had 
warned him of the danger, and he only knew it 
when he was wrecked. 

I profited by this same ignorance to persuade 
Mauricet that all was not desperate ; that his 
situation offered resources that he himself knew 
not, and that the question alone was to disen- 
tangle them. The master-workman was like 
all those who affect to scorn writing and fig- 
ures ; at the bottom he believed they held a 


144 A Workman’s Confessions. 

secret power to which every thing must give 
way. We succeeded then in bringing him 
back to our house, if not consoled, at least 
strengthened. 

In truth, the peril was only delayed. I knew 
that by the next day the bad thoughts would 
return to him. I feared, above all, the kind of 
shame which these would-be suicides have. 
Lest others believe that they have been cow- 
ardly they return to their first intention with 
obstinacy ; they regard death as the sole means 
of proving their courage, and out of self-esteem 
they kill themselves ! I warned Genevieve, 
who promised to watch without intermission. 
In fact, she alone could do it without irritating 
Mauricet. The brave hearts are powerless 
against women and children. 

In regard to myself, I had to see what could 
be done to avoid a breakdown. I passed a 
part of the night verifying the balance of the 
master-mason, but, however I figured and re- 
peated the calculations, the deficit remained 
always about the same. In continuing the 
business already engaged he had a good chance 
of recovering himself and “ clearing up,” as they 
say in the jargon of the trade. But for that it 


Father Maurtcet’s Trouble. 145 

was necessary to have money or credit, and 
where could they be found ? I had very much 
puzzled my brain without any means present- 
ing itself, I tried every-where the next day, 
but all my attempts were useless. I was sent 
from one to another with rude rebuffs. Seeing 
me take so much heart in the affairs of Mauri- 
cet, they believed me interested, and I injured 
him without serving him. 

However, I persisted, decided to do my duty 
to the end. The master-mason had fallen into 
a mute discouragement. One could not expect 
from him any effort to help himself. When I 
attempted to send him out he said to me 
simply, The cords to my legs are cut ; leave 
me where I am ! 

I was at my wit’s end, when I recalled the 
rich contractor who had formerly encouraged 
me to instruct myself, I had often thought of 
him in my own embarrassment, but without 
wishing to ask aid from him. I always recalled 
our first interview, in which he had proved to 
me that success was the recompense of zeal 
and of talent. Confessing to him that I had 
failed was to admit that I had shown neglect 

or incapacity. Right or wrong, I had always 
10 


146 A Workman’s Confessions. 

recoiled from exposing myself to this confusion. 
For Mauricet I had less scruple. 

I feared that the millionaire had forgotten 
my face, but at the first glance of the eye he 
recognized me. That was something ; yet I was 
troubled when it was necessary for me to tell 
him the motive of my visit. I had well pre- 
pared my story ; at the moment of uttering it 
I became confused. The contractor compre- 
hended that I was in business trouble and that 
I came to him asking money. I saw him raise 
his eyebrows and tighten his lips like a man 
who would express defiance. This suddenly 
gave me back my courage. 

“ Pray notice that I do not come for myself,” 
I exclaimed, “ but for a brave companion who 
has been to me almost a father and whom you 
know — Father Mauricet. What he asks of you 
is neither an advance nor a sacrifice, but only 
to save him from the shame of a failure without 
doing you any harm. It is the question of a 
good action which perhaps will bring you noth- 
ing, but which ought not to cost you any thing.” 

“ Let me see,” said the contractor, who con- 
tinued to regard me. 

I then explained to him rapidly all the affair 


Father Mauricet’s Trouble. 147 

without making words, but without losing the 
thread of my discourse, and like one capitalist 
who converses with his equal. By force of will 
I had risen above myself. He listened to all, 
asked me many questions, demanded the papers 
in the case, and told me to come back the 
next day. 

I went away hopeless. The thing seemed so 
clear that he could not put off responding if he 
had wished to accept. This adjournment had 
certainly no other end than of giving to the re- 
fusal an appearance of reflection. I returned, 
however, upon the hour agreed. 

“ I have examined every thing,” the con- 
tractor said to me. “Your calculations are 
right. I will take charge of the affair. You 
can tell Mauricet to come and see me. He is 
a brave man, and we will find some employment 
for him which shall satisfy him.” 


148 A Workman’s Confessions. 


CHAPTER XII. 

AT MONTMORENCY. 

FTER the departure of Mauricet I busied 



myself winding up my own affairs. Jus- 
tice had finally pronounced, and I could free 
myself. My debts paid, all I had left was some 
stamped paper. I had satisfied all my engage- 
ments, but I found myself for the second time 
penniless. 

I was going to take up the trowel again when 
an architect, under whom I had worked, pro- 
posed that I should quit Paris and establish 
myself at Montmorency. He assured me work 
there for the season and promised to push me. 

“ It is a good place,” he said tome. “ There 
is only one master-mason, a good workman, but 
brutal, and whom one employs for lack of a 
better. With a little effort the better part of 
the work will come to you. Here you will al- 
ways vegetate between the great contractors, 
who will suppress you. It is better to be a tree 
among bushes than a bush in the forest.” 


At Montmorency. 149 

I too well felt these reasons to hesitate. All 
was soon concluded. The architect took me to 
the work, explained what I should do, and I re- 
turned to Paris to fetch Genevieve. 

The moment of departure was hard. It was 
the first time that I had left the great city to 
live ! I was accustomed to its dirt and its 
pavements as the peasant is to verdure or the 
odor of hay. I had my familiar streets where 
I passed every day. My eye was accustomed 
to the people and to the houses. All were be- 
come by long usage like a part of myself. To 
abandon Paris was to get away from at the 
same time my tastes, my recollections, my en- 
tire life. The neighbors who had known us for 
a long time came to their doors to bid us 
adieu. Some of them pitied us! This made 
me assume a cheerful face. I greeted them 
laughingly. For nothing in the world would I 
let them see my sadness. I very well felt that 
this forced departure was a humiliation. It 
proved that bad luck had been stronger than 
myself. I wished to protest against the defeat 
by having the appearance of not feeling it. As 
for Genevieve, who had fewer regrets, she did 
not think to hide her tears. Loaded with bas- 


150 A Workman’s Confessions. 

kets and packages, the poor woman responded 
to all the salutations and all the wishes of a 
happy journey by thanks accompanied with 
sighs. She stopped at each door to embrace 
the children for the last time. I was impa- 
tient at these delays, and I went along whis- 
tling in order to keep myself in countenance. 
Finally, at the turn of the street, when the last 
house of the faubourg had disappeared, I 
breathed more freely. 

Genevieve had rejoined me. We climbed to- 
gether into the wagon which carried our poor 
furnishings and took the road to Montmorency. 
God knows how many maledictions I addressed 
to myself on the way at the slowness of the 
horses and at the halts of the driver. The 
blood boiled in my veins. Yet I kept quiet. 
I feared that if I spoke I should say too much. 
Genevieve felt like myself. At last we reached 
the place as the day closed. 

The little lodging which I had taken was at 
the end of the village, in a narrow street where 
the wagon had trouble to pass. I opened the 
door with a pang at my heart. I motioned 
Genevieve to enter, and I returned to aid the 
carrier unload the furniture. I did not wish to 


At Montmorency. 


151 

see the disappointment of the poor woman over 
our miserable habitation. 

She comprehended, without doubt, what I 
felt, for she re-appeared soon upon the threshold 
with a smile, declaring it was all she could 
wish. She aided in carrying things and put- 
ting them in place. When we had finished the 
night had shut down, the wagon departed, and 
we were alone. 

Our quarters were upon the ground floor, 
which was lower than the street itself. The 
floors had formerly been paved, but the broken 
tiles formed now a kind of uneven and dirty 
macadam. A little window, opening upon the 
court of a neighbor, let in smoky odors, and a 
high chimney, which occupied almost all the 
width of the gable, let fall thick volumes of 
smoke. I contemplated this sad den with a 
sort of stupor. Whether I had badly judged at 
the first appearance, whether my disposition 
was different, I now found an unwholesomeness 
and dilapidation which had not at first struck 
me. Our furnishings put in place and the pres- 
ence of Genevieve, far from making the place 
cheerful, seemed to make it more gloomy. 
Adorned with all that could embellish it, the 


152 A Workman’s Confessions. 

lodging left no possible room for doubt and 
showed itself in its actual ugliness. In spite of 
her efforts to appear satisfied Genevieve felt 
an uncomfortableness which she could not hide. 
She had seated herself by the hearth, support- 
ing her elbows upon her knees, and looking in 
a fixed way before her. I was at the other end 
of the room with crossed arms. A little candle 
burning low in a tin candlestick gave us 
enough light to let us see our sadness. Gene- 
vieve was the first to rouse out of this depres- 
sion. She got up, sighing, sought the basket of 
provisions which she had brought from Paris, 
and began to lay the table-cloth. But bread 
was wanting. I went out to buy it. 

The baker’s shop was some distance off ; 
when I entered many neighbors were gathered 
upon the threshold ; they were listening to a 
large man who spoke very loudly and with an 
appearance of anger. I paid no attention at 
first, while I waited for the loaf which some 
one had gone to get in the back shop, when I 
heard my name pronounced by the large man. 

“ He names himself Peter Henry, called the 
Conscientious,” he exclaimed ; “ but you may 
wring my neck if I don’t change his name into 


At Montmorency. 153 

that of the Famished. Even if I have to sell 
my last shirt I will make him more bother and 
do him more mischief than are necessary to 
ruin him ! ” 

“ In fact, if we let these Parisians establish 
themselves in the country they will eat our 
bread to the last mouthful,” observed a neigh- 
bor, from whose black hands I recognized a 
blacksmith. 

“ Without taking into account that they al- 
ways end in bankruptcy,” added the grocer. “In 
proof, there is the watch-maker from the great 
place, who has gone off without paying me.” 

“ And look you, the new master-mason will 
not have a better memory,” resumed the large 
man. “ It is my opinion that he is some 
sharper who has come here to hide from the 
police.” 

Until now I had listened without knowing 
whether I ought to have the appearance of 
hearing ; but at these last words the blood 
mounted to my head and I turned toward the 
door. 

“ Peter Henry has no need of hiding from 
any body,” I exclaimed, “ and the proof is that 
it is he who speaks to you.” 


154 A Workman’s Confessions. 

There was a general movement among the 
spectators. The large man approached the 
door-sill. 

“ Ah ! ah ! do we see the bird here ? ” he 
said, regarding me with an insolent air. “ Well, 
I should not have recognized him from the 
plumage ; for a master from the great city he 
has an appearance a little too simple.” 

“You shall see from the work I know how 
to do,” I replied, sharply. “ Insults only prove 
jealousy or malice ; it is by his work that the 
workman must be judged.” 

“ It remains to be seen whether any one 
wishes your work,” resumed the master-mason, 
gruffly. “ You have taken away from me one 
customer ; but if you take away a second, as 
true as I am named Jean Fèrou I will break 
your back at the first chance.” 

I felt that I became pale, not from fear, but 
from vexation. This big figure, red with an- 
ger, and those little gray eyes, which shot out 
menace, stirred my blood. I looked the mas- 
ter-mason in the face. 

“ We shall see about that. Master Fèrou ! ” 
I replied, restraining myself. “ The people 
whom one wishes to crush do not always allow 


At Montmorency. 155 

it; Until now I have defended my skin against 
many a bad fellow, and I shall hope not to 
leave it at Montmorency.” 

“ Well, then, all right ! ” cried the master- 
mason, who pushed back his cap ; “ we will 
see what you know how to do with your fists, 
ril settle the matter here and now, and it 
shall not be said that Jean Fèrou will let the 
grass be cut under his feet by a bungler from 
Paris.” 

I did not respond ; my anger increased, and 
I felt near exploding. I quickly took the bread 
which I had come to buy, and was going out, 
when the baker demanded payment. I replied 
that I had put the money on the counter ; but 
the baker declared that he had not received it. 
A dispute ensued, which the interference of the 
master-mason helped to sharpen. Feeling my 
honor at stake, I sustained my affirmation with 
persistence. In the heat of the strife a little 
girl who, was present declared, in a low voice, 
that I held the money hidden between my 
fingers. I quickly opened my hand ; was it 
truly there ? In my trouble I had taken from 
the counter a twelve-sous piece and held it 
without knowing it ! 


156 A Workman’s Confessions. 

The movement among the spectators at this 
revelation made me dizzy. I wished to stam- 
mer an explanation, but, feeling myself sus- 
pected, I was in doubt. I was unknown, sur- 
rounded by ill-disposed people, without any 
means of proving that my error had been in- 
voluntary. I comprehended that all my justifi- 
cations were useless ; so, suddenly cutting short, 
I paid the baker and turned to leave. 

The master-mason stood at the opening of 
the door, one shoulder leaning against the cas- 
ing and his feet propped against the other 
side. He sneeringly regarded me. 

Missed the trick ! ” he said to me, ironic- 
ally ; “ for to-day he has to pay for his bread 
at the regular price.” 

“ Let me pass ! ” I cried, out of patience. 

** Why ! why ! ” he resumed, in a tone more 
and more provoking, “ one would say that the 
Parisian gets mad.” 

“ The Parisian has had enough of your in- 
sults,” I replied, trembling with anger, “ and 
you must make room.” 

“ Truly ! And if I don’t wish to ? ” 

- Then I’ll make it ! ” 


“ Ah, indeed ! Come on, then ! ” 


At Montmorency. 157 

I advanced resolutely to him ; he was lean- 
against the wall with crossed arms. 

“Jean Fèrou, will you let me go out?” I 
demanded, with closed fists. 

“ No,” he said, sneeringly. 

I seized him by the arm and pushed him 
roughly to force him to make room for me. 

He doubtless did not expect such boldness, 
for he was on the point of losing his balance ; 
but he regained himself immediately with an 
oath, turned upon me with raised hand, and 
struck me a blow on the head which stunned 
me. I endeavored to put myself on the defen- 
sive, and sustained the struggle until I tripped 
against the door-sill, drawing the master-mason 
in my downfall. Falling under him, I soon 
felt his knees upon my chest, while his fists 
pounded my face. The spectators, who had 
let him alone until then, decided, finally, to 
separate us. They pulled Master Férou off 
from me with trouble ; they put under my arm 
the bread which I had bought, showed me the 
road, and I mechanically took the way to my 
lodging. 

I went like a drunken man ; all my limbs 
ached, and I was broken-hearted. At the sight 


158 A Workman’s Confessions. 

of the house I relaxed my steps ; I feared the 
questionings of Genevieve when she should 
see my bruised and bloody face. I could not 
sustain the idea of relating to her the humil- 
iations which I had suffered. Happily, she had 
yielded to the day’s fatigue ; I found her in 
bed and asleep. 

I hastened to put out the candle, which still 
burned, and got into bed. But I sought sleep 
in vain ; I was devoured by a furious rage. 
Hate of the master mason possessed me ; I 
wished him now all the evil that he had wished 
to do to me ; I sought by what means I could 
injure him and revenge myself. Every thing 
else was indifferent to me. I inwardly de- 
manded the aid of the good God against my 
enemy. Reflection, instead of calming me, ex- 
cited my bad thoughts more and more. My 
rancor was like an abyss which increased in 
depth the more I gave way to it. If I slept 
from time to time it was to dream angry 
dreams. Sometimes I saw Master Pérou 
ruined, with the beggar’s sack upon his shoul- 
der ; sometimes I had him under my feet, 
where he held me, and I forced him to cry for 
mercy ; at other times I saw him with bound 


At Montmorency. 


159 


hands between four gendarmes, who led him 
to the prison for thieves while I showered 
upon him insults and jeers. 

In the midst of these nightmares I was 
awakened with a start by Genevieve. I sat 
upright in bed ; a great light shone into our 
dwelling ; we heard outside a tumult of voices, 
the noise of people who seemed to be running. 
Then the cry “To the fire!” resounded. I 
jumped from the end of the bed, hastily 
dressed, and went out. Two men came run- 
ning along the street. 

“ Where is the fire ?” I asked. 

“At the yard of Jean Fèrou,” they re- 
sponded, both together. 

I suddenly stopped. One would have said 
that God had heard my prayers, and that 
he had taken it upon himself to revenge me. 
I must confess it now, the first feeling was that 
of satisfaction ; but it lasted no longer than a 
flash ; almost at once I felt remorse for my joy. 
With the return of better feeling it seemed to 
me that I was more obliged than any one else 
to help the master-mason and to compensate 
by action my evil wishes. This idea was like 
a flame darting through my heart. I ran at 


i6o A Workman’s Confessions. 

once with the people who were passing and 
reached Fèrou’s yard. 

The fire, at first confined to a shed, had 
soon spread. At the moment of my arrival 
the piles of beams and battens formed around 
the house a circle of flame which hindered ap- 
proach. Workmen ran in the midst of the 
smoke taking away the burning material. I 
joined them, and we finally cleared a passage. 
Reaching the house, we found it locked. Some 
one cried that Jean Pérou ought to be with his 
brother at Andilly, but many others responded 
that they recognized him that same evening 
in the village ; one of them had even seen him 
enter, as he said, with a drop of tea in 
his head and a bottle under the arm.” Drunk 
and asleep, he had, without doubt, heard 
nothing. 

Meanwhile the danger became more and 
more pressing. The fire, which was extending 
from behind, had passed already to the roof 
of the house. We knocked in vain at the 
closed door ; we called the master-mason with 
all the strength of our lungs; there was no 
response ! At this moment there was above 
our heads a frightful cracking, and the loosened 


At Montmorency. i6i 

tiles began to fall with a shower of embers. 
The roof had fallen ; every body fled. Jean 
Pérou, at last awakened, appeared at one of 
the windows. 

Surprised in his drunkenness, and still con- 
fused, he looked out with exclamations of 
fright without seeming to comprehend his 
plight. Every body shouted to him at the 
same Time to come down and flee ; but the 
unhappy man, beside himself, continued to 
watch the flames which ran across the yard, 
.repeating in a lamenting accent, “ The fire ! 
the fire ! ” 

Two or three of us decided to return to the 
house. The fire began already to break through 
the floors. We shouted to the master-mason 
that the least delay would cost him his life. 
He seemed finally to comprehend, for he 
quickly re-entered, as if he had decided to 
reach the door, and we drew near to aid him. 
From the sparks which gushed across the shut- 
ters of the ground-floor we saw that the flames 
had invaded at the same time both the lower 
story as well as the upper. Jean Pérou soon 
re-appeared at the window, crying that the 

stairs were on fire and demanded a ladder. 

11 


i62 a Workman’s Confessions. 

Some ran to seek one ; but in the midst of this 
disorder and destruction it seemed doubtful 
if they could find it in time. The fire on the 
lower story increased rapidly ; instead of snap- 
ping the flames began to roar in the interior 
like a furnace. Jean Pérou, loaded with papers 
and bags of money, was astride the window- 
sill, crying for some one to aid him in de- 
scending ; but those who were nearest remained 
immovable through fright or lack of power. 
All at once I felt myself seized with a cour- 
ageous spirit ; the idea of the danger disap- 
peared, and I only saw that there was a man 
to be saved. 

I ran to one of the windows of the ground 
floor, and by the aid of a shutter I reached the 
cornice of the first story. There my shoulders 
were almost on a level with the feet of the mas- 
ter-mason ; I cried to him to let them serve him 
as a point of support. Pérou, whom the situ- 
ation had sobered, did not need to be told a 
second time. Drawing his legs through the 
window, he slipped down upon me. His weight 
at first made me lose my balance ; I tottered, 
but, clutching at the wall, I sunk my nails in 
the joints of the stones, to which I held by a 


At Montmorency. 163 

strong effort, and the mason, using my body 
for a ladder, reached the ground without 
accident. 

It was only when I had rejoined him that he 
recognized me. He started back several steps, 
carried his hand to his head, and after having 
stamipered some words which I could not un- 
derstand seated himself upon the remains of a 
charred beam which still smoked. So many 
events in quick succession had astounded him ; 
he was without strength to express himself or 
to give thanks. Perhaps he also lacked the 
will. Jean Fèrou had a heart whose senti- 
ments were as difficult to draw out as the 
angles in a stone. Even not to treat you as an 
enemy required an effort. His wife had been 
obliged to leave him after eighteen years of 
torment and of patience; his children had 
sought outside of his home the bread of stran- 
gers, and of all those with whom he had worked 
and lived not one was his friend. Under obli- 
gations to me after the fire in his timber-yard, 
he refrained from injuring me; but that was 
all. When I met him he passed along as if 
he had not seen me; if any one spoke to 
him of me he said nothing, or suddenly left ; 


164 A Workman’s Confessions. 

the bear had simply quit biting without be- 
coming tamed. 

Happily the witnesses of the service ren- 
dered compensated me for this coldness. They 
told how I had conducted myself with the 
master-mason, and they felt all the more good- 
will when they learned at the same time what 
I had suffered from him the previous evening. 
Simply doing my duty appeared like generos- 
ity, and every one paid me in esteem what 
Jean Pérou had refused me in gratitude. 

After having struggled two years the master- 
mason suddenly left the country without say- 
ing any thing, and I have never heard him 
mentioned since. 

Soon a son and a daughter consoled us for 
the loss of our first child. Love, joy, comfort, 
and health formed the four corners of our 
home. Genevieve sang all the day ; the little 
ones grew and prattled ; the money came of 
itself to our box ; good luck shone upon us like 
a cloudless sun. I can say that this time was 
the happiest of all my life, for it was then that 
I best felt God’s kindness. At length one gets 
accustomed to happiness and claims it as the 


At Montmorency. 165 

payment of a debt, instead of receiving it as 
a gift ; but then I was not spoiled by 
providence ; I had still upon my lips the 
bitterness of pain and misery, which made me 
feel all the better the good taste of the bread 
of prosperity. 


i66 A Workman’s Confessions. 


CHAPTER XIII. 

PROSPEROUS YEARS. 

HE first five years of our establishment at 



Montmorency have not left many recol- 
lections. I simply recall that work became 
more and more plentiful, and those who had 
the appearance of scorning me when I first 
came no longer passed me -without carrying 
their hands to their hats. I was thenceforth 
a personage in the country. Having leased 
the building-yard of my old competitor I was 
established there with Genevieve. We had car- 
peted the house, repainted the old ceilings, 
hung the windows with white curtains, planted 
Bengal roses on both sides of the door. One 
corner of the lot had been set off into a gar- 
den. There my wife planted flowers and dried 
her linen ; she had caught there a stray swarm 
of bees which at length gave us many hives. 
Our son and daughter grew like poplars, run- 
ning among our flower-borders and singing in 
a way to silence the birds. Tranquillity and 


Prosperous Years. 


167 

happiness had settled upon our home. I 
recollect this time only by a vexation which 
very soon became a pleasure. 

It was at the birth of the little Marianne. 
We had for neighbor a Paris lady worth one 
hundred thousand francs, and good in propor- 
tion — a true providence for all who approached 
her. I had built walls in her park to her entire 
satisfaction, and she had, besides, taken a liking 
for Genevieve, who had laundered her linen. 
So two or three months before the birth of the 
little one she asked to be its godmother — an 
offer which the mother and I gratefully ac- 
cepted. The child came into the world with 
good promise of living; and I was in the hap- 
piness of the first moment when Mauricet 
visited us. I had not seen the master-work- 
man since his unhappy experience in Paris ; 
but I knew that the contractor who employed 
him had made his place comfortable, and that 
he had once more taken up life with a good 
heart. Indeed, I found him as talkative, as 
jovial, and as active as in his best days ; age 
had simply made him a little stouter. He em- 
braced us again and again, and could not keep 
from weeping. 


i68 A Workman’s Confessions. 


“ I have seen your yard,” he said to me, 
both hands resting upon my shoulders, with his 
humid eyes close to mine ; it seems that you 
are making things go, my boy. You are mak- 
ing provisions for the winter of old age. That 
is well, my fine fellow Î The success of friends 
does me good Î ” 

I answered him that every thing, indeed, 
went forward as I wished, and I rapidly ex- 
plained to him my position. He listened to 
me, seated near the bed of Genevieve, our little 
Jacques upon his knees, and looking at the new 
arrival which slept in its cradle. 

“ Well, hurrah ! ” he cried, when I had fin- 
ished; “brave people ought to prosper; that 
does honor to the good God ! I wanted to 
know where you were, and that is why I have 
asked of the patron a few holidays.” 

“ So you will remain with us,” said Gene- 
vieve, with a visible satisfaction. 

“ If that is what you wish,” replied Mauricet. 
“ I have come only to see you. After so long 
a separation I hungered and thirsted for you.” 

He took me again by the hands. 

“And then,” he added, turning toward my 
wife, “ I knew that there was a little one in the 


Prosperous Years. 169 

cradle, and I have nursed an idea — an idea 
which has rejoiced me for three months.’* 

“ What idea ? ” asked Genevieve. 

“ That of bringing you a godfather for the 
infant.” 

“ A godfather? ” 

“ And behold him ! ” he finished, slapping 
his breast. “ You will never find one of better 
will, nor one who loves you more.** 

Genevieve could not restrain an uneasy move- 
ment, and we exchanged glances ; Mauricet no- 
ticed it. 

“ Have I come too late ? ’* he demanded. 
“ Have you already chosen?’* 

“ A godfather — no,” stammered the mother ; 
“ we have only a godmother.” 

“ Then that is right,” resumed the master- 
workman. “You will present her to me. 
Meeting you again here, you see, gives me a 
taste for mirth. We must enjoy ourselves to 
the utmost ! I wish a model baptism, with 
sugar-plums and rabbit stew. Ah ! come 
now, the godmother is not disagreeable at 
least ? ” 

I replied with a little embarrassment that it 
was Madame Lefort, our rich neighbor. 


170 A Workman’s Confessions. 

“ A lady! ” repeated Mauricet ; ** excuse her 
insignificance a little. Here is an honor! 
Then I must know how to carry myself. But 
be calm ; I know how to have a certain style 
upon occasions. I will buy a pair of knit 
gloves ! ” 

We had not had time to reply when the 
neighbor herself entered. I was for a moment 
speechless ; Genevieve raised herself in bed. 
The position became truly embarrassing. It 
was becoming still more so, when Madame Le- 
fort recalled the promise which she had made 
us, and declared that she had come to have an 
understanding with us in regard to the god- 
father. 

** What ! ” exclaimed Mauricet, straighten- 
ing himself a godfather ? Present! I have 
come for that from Burgundy. Is this ma- 
dame whom I see and who ought to be my 
friend? I am delighted with the favor ! We 
must have an understanding about the sugar- 
plums.” 

Madame Lefort looked at us in astonishment. 
Genevieve had become very red, and picked at 
the down of her coverlet without daring to 
raise her eyes. There was a continued silence, 


Prosperous Years. 


171 

during which Mauricet, who noticed nothing, 
trotted Jacques upon his knee to the familiar 
ditty ; 

“To Paris, to Paris, 

U pon a horse of gray ; 

To Rouen, to Rouen, 

Upon a horse of brown.” 

“This changes every thing,” the neighbor 
finally said in a tone a little dry. “ I came to 
propose naming the infant w'ith my brother, 
the prefect’s counsel. I was not aware that you 
had made your choice without my knowledge.” 

“ Let madame excuse us,” I responded ; “ we 
had thought of no one ; it is the master-work- 
man, who, in arriving, just now made us the 
proposition.” 

“And we intended to speak to madame,” 
added Genevieve. 

“ Wait a minute,” interrupted Mauricet ; “ I 
do not wish to inconvenience any one. What 
I have said was from affection. I would have 
liked to name the little one, seeing that a god- 
daughter is half a daughter ; but my good-will 
ought not to do him harm, and if Peter Henry 
finds a better he must not inconvenience him- 
self.” 


172 A Workman’s Confssions. 

He was slowly getting up ; the jovial expres- 
sion on his good face had disappeared. Gene- 
vieve and I made together a gesture to retain 
him ; we had taken our resolution with the 
same heart.” 

“ Stay ! ” I exclaimed ; “ one can never find 
a better than an old friend like you.” 

“ Especially as Madame Lefort knows you,” 
added Genevieve. 

And turning toward the neighbor with a 
supplicating smile, It is the brave Mauricet,” 
she continued, “ the old-time tutor of Peter 
Henry, of whom I have often spoken to 
madame ; he who has helped him, after God, 
to be an honest man. When Mother Mad- 
eleine died he led the mourners, and when we 
were married he led us to the church. In 
happiness, as in sadness, he has always been 
with us. Madame will comprehend that he 
has a right to continue his profession of pro- 
tector toward our children.” 

“You are right,” said Madame Lefort, whose 
face had regained its serenity ; “ the new 
friends ought not to usurp the place of the 
old. Monsieur Mauricet, we shall name her 
together.” 


Prosperous Years. 


173 


‘‘Well, then,” cried the master - mason, 
touched even to tears, “ I will say that you 
are a brave woman ! But you shall not regret 
what you have done, for if I am in the rough, 
like the wood not yet squared, I know what 
one owes to well-born people. Madame has 
nothing to fear ; she shall be satisfied with 
me. 

The neighbor smiled and changed the con- 
versation. She showed herself very polite 
with Mauricet, who, after her departure, de- 
clared that she was the queen of great people. 
In regard to us, he pressed our hands in his 
own with an expression of gratitude which 
affected me. 

“ Thanks, friends,” he said to us in a voice 
full of feeling ; “ if I should live a hundred 
years you shall see that I will never forget 
this hour! You have not been ashamed of 
your old comrade, and you have risked for him 
the loss of a rich patronage. It was brave, it 
was just. God will recompense you.” 

The baptism passed off to the satisfaction of 
every body. Mauricet had the manners of a 
prefect, and Madame Lefort displayed no dis- 
comfort at such a godfather. 


174 A Workman’s Confessions. 

After some days passed with us the master- 
workman went away satisfied with every body. 
We wept a little in saying adieu, Mauricet ex- 
pecting no more to see us. “ And now we 
are to be separated until the last judgment,” 
he said ; no matter, the last meeting will 
have been happy. This is not so common a 
thing, you know, that of meeting after a long 
absence and separating again without having 
any thing to awaken reproach on one side or 
the other. You are on the highway to fort- 
une, child ; do not force the relays, and keep 
on the road, looking out for the ruts. I leave 
you here a little Christian who shall remind 
you of me. And you, Peter Henry, who write 
as easily as one speaks, do not be lazy ; send 
me, from time to time, a letter telling me about 
your home ; since the devil has invented writ- 
ing it is necessary to serve him well ! ” 

He embraced us again, returned to the cra- 
dle of his goddaughter, to look at her sleep- 
ing, then departed. 

The kind of presentiment which he had 
on leaving us was realized ; I never saw 
him afterward, though he lived, thank God, 
long years. From time to time workmen 


Prosperous Years. 


i;5 

brought me verbal news with little presents 
for Marianne. The good mason was, they said, 
always brave with the work and warm for 
his friends ; the contractor who had seen his 
capability left him master of his part of the 
business. Mauricet thus grew old, happy and 
useful, without ever believing that he had mer- 
ited a better position ; he was, as they say, a 
simple heart who had no idea of making the 
divisions of life over again after the good God. 
There came a year when I heard, simply, of 
his sudden sickness and end. He had come 
to the building-yard less stout-hearted than 
commonly, had been drenched by a rain-storm 
without quitting work, and, taken with a fever 
in the evening, he had breathed his last sigh 
the next day. Soldier of work, he had died, 
so to speak, upon the field of battle. 

It was hard news for us. Genevieve loved 
him with a special friendship ; she made the 
little Marianne wear mourning for him. He 
was the last witness of our youth who had 
gone ; he was our last relative by adoption 
whom they put under the earth. Now, our 
family began with us ; our children, little by 
little, would replace us ; we had entered the 


\ y 6 A Workman’s Confessions. 

decline at the bottom of which opens the 
gate of the cemetery. Happily, one does not 
linger over these ideas. Men live, as the world 
turns, under the will of God. It is for him to 
think and for us to §ubmit ourselves. 

Jacques and Marianne grew without giving 
us care and without feeling it ; it was the good 
humor of the house. The boy already went 
among the workmen and learned by looking at 
them ; the little girl followed her mother every- 
where as if she needed to see her, to laugh with 
her, and to embrace her. 

Meanwhile, Madame Lefort took her away 
from us at times. She, too, had a daughter, 
who had conceived a warm friendship for 
Marianne, and would only play or work with 
her. Every day the child came with some 
new present ; it was fruit, a plaything, jewelry 
even. More than one envied us these gener- 
osities ; as for me, I was grateful for them, but 
simply because of the friendship which they 
proved ; I was happier for the caresses of our 
little neighbor than for her gifts. 

To tell the truth, Madame Lefort had not 
any false pride. Our child was always treated 
as the equal of her daughter, to whom even she 


Prosperous Years. 


177 


often offered her as an example. All pro- 
gressed happily up to the time when M. Le- 
fort accepted duties which forced him to return 
to Paris. On learning that she was going to 
leave Marianne his daughter broke into loud 
cries ; they had to make her many promises ; 
nothing could console her. Finally, the day be- 
fore departure, Madame Lefort came to us while 
we were at supper; she was followed by a 
chamber-maid who left after having set down 
a box. Our neighbor sought a pretext to 
have the children go out, and when we were 
alone, 

“ I have come to talk with you of serious 
things,” she said; “do not begin by answer- 
ing, and listen to me with all your heart and 
all your reason.” 

We promised her. 

“ I have no need to speak to you of the at- 
tachment of Caroline for Marianne,” she re- 
sumed ; “ you have witnessed it, and you have 
been able to judge. My daughter is accus- 
tomed to live most of the time with yours ; 
she needs her to learn how to be happy. 
Since she has been in fear of separation she has 

had no more taste for any thing; she refuses 
12 


lyS A Workman's Confessions. 

all work and all pleasure ; one would say that 
a part of her life had been taken away." 

Genevieve interrupted her to express her 
gratitude for such an affection. 

“ If it is true that you are grateful to her," 
continued Madame Lefort, “ you can prove it ; 
your daughter is to Caroline a sister by 
choice; permit that she become a veritable 
sister." 

“ How is that ?" I demanded. 

“ By confiding her to us," she replied. 

And as she saw that we both started she 
exclaimed : 

“ Ah, recollect your promise ; you have en- 
gaged to listen to me to the end. I do not 
come proposing to tear Marianne from your 
love, but simply to let her accept ours. The 
question is not of taking her away from her 
family ; we wish to give her a second. I shall 
have a child the more without your having 
one the less, for all your rights shall remain to 
you, and your daughter shall return to you as 
often as you wish." 

Genevieve and I spoke together, raising ob- 
jections. 

“ Wait," Madame Lefort interrupted anew ; 


Prosperous Years. 


179 


** let me tell you every thing. What you wish, 
above all — is it not true ? — is the happiness of 
your child ; your dearest wish is to assure her 
a tranquil future ? Well, then, I take this 
obligation upon me. Not only shall Marianne 
receive the same education as my daughter, 
and divide all her diversions, but I engage 
myself to assure her position, to give her a 
dowry. I have only one daughter, and I am 
rich enough to give myself this pleasure.” 

The proposition was so extraordinary, so 
unexpected, that we were troubled ; she per- 
ceived it, and, rising, “ Reflect,” she said ; “ I 
do not want to surprise you ; to-morrow you 
will give me your answer. I will then take 
measures that my promises shall become a 
formal and written engagement.” 

Genevieve seized her hand and wished to 
say how much she was touched by such 
kindness. 

“ Do not thank me,” continued Madame Le- 
fort; ‘‘what I do is for my daughter much 
more than for yours ; in acquiring for her a 
devoted companion I shall enrich her. You 
will find in this box one of Caroline’s dresses; 
it is designed for her adopted sister. I feel 


i8o A Workman’s Confessiqns. 

how this explanation has moved you ; I, my- 
self, you see, have scarcely been able to keep 
from weeping ; so I desire to avoid a second 
talk upon this subject. If you decide to ac- 
cept my proposition bring Marianne to me to- 
morrow in her new costume ; this shall be a 
proof that Caroline can regard her as a sister ; 
otherwise, spare my poor child and myself the 
grief of adieus.” 

At these words she saluted us with her hand 
and went out. I remained motionless before 
the door with lowered head and hanging arms. 
Genevieve dropped upon a chair, covered 
her face with her apron and began to sob. 
We remained so a long time, saying nothing, 
but comprehending each other by our silence. 
The same combat was going on in both our 
hearts. In spite of what Madame Lefort had 
been able to say we well felt that in confid- 
ing Marianne to her we renounced the best 
part of our rights, that the child changed her 
family and that we could no more than hope 
to keep the second place in her affection ; but 
the advantages proposed were great. How- 
ever prosperous for the time my position was 
I knew, by experience, that one hour or another 


Prosperous Years. i8i 

could change every thing. A failure had only 
to compromise my credit, a sickness to derange 
my affairs, my death to expose those who sur- 
vived me to poverty. What Madame Lefort 
offered us was painful for Genevieve and my- 
self, but profitable for Marianne. If, in think- 
ing of ourselves, it was simple to refuse, in 
considering only our daughter it was perhaps 
prudent tq consent. This last idea finished 
by persuading us. After all, parents live for 
their children, not for themselves. Each one 
of us had made these reflections, and when we 
came to converse we had both of us reached 
the same conclusion. Genevieve wept ; al- 
though I was no more courageous I endeav- 
ored to strengthen her. 

Let us be calm,” I said to her, in a low 
tone, for fear of weeping too ; ‘‘ the question 
is not of weakening but of doing our duty. 
Why afflict ourselves if our child will be 
happy? Rather thank God forgiving us the 
occasion of a sacrifice to her profit ; it is proof 
that he esteems and loves us.” 

However, I did not sleep well this night, 
and I got up the next morning at early day- 
break ; Genevieve was already up preparing 


i82 a Workman’s Confessions. 

the clothing brought the evening before by 
Madame Lefort. She made no complaint, ex- 
pressed no regret ; she had a brave nature, and 
never questioned that which she believed nec- 
essary. When Marianne awoke she began to 
dress her silently in her new costume. The 
little girl appeared at first surprised ; she 
wished to know why they gave her these fine 
clothes of a demoiselle ; and as her mother, 
who had finished dressing her, wished to press 
her a last time in her arms, she drew herself 
away, warning her not to muss her collaret. 

Genevieve gave a feeble cry and broke into 
tears. I myself had trembled ; a curtain was 
torn from my eyes. I took the child by the 
hand, I made her quickly enter the next room, 
and I turned toward the mother, who con- 
tinued to weep. 

** Listen,” I said to her, in a low voice, “ we 
have decided to give away the child for her 
own interest ; but we must know in wishing 
to be useful to her that we are not doing her 
an injury.” 

“ Ah, you have seen, then, as I have,’* 
stammered Genevieve. 

“ I have seen,” I replied, that the fine 


Prosperous Years. 183 

dress has made her forget that she is going to 
live far from us, and that vanity already smoth- 
ers her heart.” 

“ She loves her toilet better than my kisses,” 
said the mother, redoubling her tears. 

“ And this is only a beginning,” I added. 
“ We can by great sacrifice deprive ourselves 
of the child that we love, but not consent to 
its spoiling. I do not wish that Marianne shall 
become richer if the condition is that she shall 
become bad.* Yesterday we saw only one side 
of the thing, that of interest ; there is another 
more grave, that of morality. In living like 
a lady the child will forget very quickly 
whence she came; who knows if the time will 
not come when she will be ashamed of us ? 
This cannot be, this shall not be ! Go, take 
away her costume, Genevieve, and remain her 
mother, in order that she may remain wor- 
thy of being your daughter.” 

The poor woman threw herself into my arms 
and ran and undressed the little one. We let 
Madame Lefort depart without saying adieu, as 
she had asked us ; but I wrote to explain to 
her as well as possible our position. She did 
not reply, and we have had no more communis 


1 84 A Workman’s Confessions. 

cation with her. She could not, doubtless, 
pardon us our refusal. 

In the meantime, the architect to whom I 
owed my position at Montmorency continued 
well-inclined toward me. He gave me all the 
work which he could and neglected no occasion 
to increase my profits. I regarded him as the 
true author of my success, and I wished nothing 
so much as to see him prosper. Unhappily, 
he was a man whom pleasure enticed. Confi- 
dent in his skill and his activity, he believed he 
was able to meet every thing, and never took 
any account with his fancies. The summer- 
house which he had built had become the ren- 
dezvous of a brilliant society. There were only 
gala days and feastings, without speaking of 
gambling and card-playing. I soon noticed 
that his affairs were getting embarrassed. He 
deferred payments, asked advances, accepted 
all the business he could. His credit suffered 
at first, then his reputation. They spoke in a 
whisper of his overcharges, of bribes received. 
I repulsed these accusations as calumnies. For 
my part I had always found M. Duprè easy in 
business, but loyal. 

A Parisian company had confided to him for 


Prosperous Years. 


185 


two years the direction of a brick-field and cer- 
tain quarries, the working of which had reached, 
thanks to his activity, great proportions. Yet 
the enterprise, prosperous in appearance, had 
not realized, so far, any profit. Those interested 
supposed that the frequent and forced absences 
of M. Duprè favored the dishonesty of some in- 
ferior employee. They thought that an over- 
sight of the details was indispensable, and pro- 
posed this to me. Before accepting I wished 
to consult M. Duprè himself. He appeared 
embarrassed, but after having hesitated some 
seconds, If it is not Peter Henry it will be 
some other,” he said, as if to himself. I had 
better do business with an acquaintance than 
with a stranger.” 

He advised me, then, to accept, but coun- 
seled me not to trouble myself beyond measure, 
to let things follow their course, and in any case 
to do nothing without informing him. 

I immediately entered upon my new duty. 
The workings appeared to me in excellent 
shape, well equipped and vigorously conducted. 
In seeing the organization of the business I 
could not comprehend why it had not given 
more satisfactory results. Curiosity led me at 


1 86 A Workman’s Confessions. 


first to seek the cause, then honesty obliged me 
to pursue it. From the first examination I had 
detected considerable embezzlements. I suc- 
ceeded in drawing up a list and estimating the 
value ; they amounted to a sum in the neigh- 
borhood of twenty thousand francs. Troubled 
by my sad discovery, I went to see M. Dupre, 
to whom I communicated it. At the first 
word he made an exclamation. I believed that 
he doubted, and I put under his eyes all the 
proofs. When I had finished he asked if I 
suspected any one. I answered that I did not ; 
the thing had happened before my entrance 
into the business. 

“ Then do not speak of it to any one,” he 
said, quickly. “Act as if you were ignorant 
of every thing. Remember, you have seen 
nothing.” 

I raised my eyes, stupefied. He was very 
pale, and his hands trembled. A frightful ray 
of light crossed my mind. I recoiled in regard- 
ing him. He carried his clenched hand to his 
forehead with despair. I could not restrain 
a cry. 

“ Keep quiet, unhappy one,” he resumed, in 
a tone which frightened me. “ This is only a 


Prosperous Years. 


187 


momentary irregularity. My affairs will re- 
establish themselves, and I will make good the 
loss to the interested parties. But remember 
that the least indiscretion may ruin me ! ” 

He explained to me then at length the em- 
barrassment in which he found himself, un- 
folded all his plans to me, and made a list of 
his resources. I listened to him, but without 
understanding. I was astounded. I only re- 
gained my presence of mind when he asked 
me to continue and not too closely examine 
things for some weeks. The sense of my 
responsibility came back to me then in full 
force, and I comprehended that my situation 
was dreadful. 

Extuse me,” I replied, stammeringly, “ I 
can ignore that which was confided to others, 
but not that which has been put under my 
care. From to-day I shall abandon my place 
of overseer.” 

So they will give me another who will 
make the same discoveries and who will hold 
me at his mercy,'’ exclaimed the architect, bit- 
terly. “ I hoped to find in you more accom- 
modation, Peter Henry, and, above all, more 
memory.” 


1 88 A Workman’s Confessions. 

“ Ah, do not think that I have forgotten any 
thing, sir,” I cried, stirred to the bottom of the 
heart. ‘‘ I know that I owe all to you and that 
what I have belongs to you.” 

He started impulsively. 

“ Do not take what I say for words,” I added, 
more loudly. “ By uniting my resources I can 
have in a few days twelve thousand francs. In 
the name of God, take them! You must en- 
deavor to procure the rest and free yourself.” 

I wrung my hands. M. Duprè remained 
some time without responding. He was him- 
self very agitated. At last he said to me, with 
despondency, It is impossible. I thank 
you, Peter Henry, but it is too late. I should 
ruin you without saving myself. You do not 
know all.” 

He stopped himself. I dared not look at 
him, and I could not speak. He resumed, after 
a silence, “ Do what you wish. Give your res- 
ignation. All I ask of you is silence concern- 
ing that which you would not have known.” 

He took leave of me with a gesture, and I 
went away much troubled. 

About a month later a great enterprise was 
proposed to me which would take me to Bur- 


Prosperous Years. 


189 


gundy. What had happened with M. Duprè 
decided me to accept it. The sight of him ren- 
dered me unhappy, and the secret which I held 
made me tremble. In going away it seemed 
to me I should leave that behind. Unhappily, 
others came to know it. I learned soon after 
that all had been discovered, and that at the 
thought of public dishonor my old patron had 
lost his head and killed himself. 


190 A Workman’s Confessions. 


CHAPTER XIV. 

WHEN AGE STEALS ON. 

I T is a long while since this journal of my 
recollections was interrupted. The lines 
written upon the last page have had time to 
blanch ; and I, I have whitened too, like them, 
without perceiving it. The foundation walls 
are still solid, but the building has lost its ap- 
pearance of youth. Genevieve herself is no 
more what she was ; the wrinkles have come 
at the corners of her eyes. Happily what re- 
mains to hier makes the cheerfulness of the 
home — good health and a good heart. Be- 
sides, if we decline there are those near us who 
mount up ; the children are here and will re- 
place us ; it is for them now that the sun 
shines. Life resembles a ball ; when one is 
too old to dance he looks at the others, and 
their joy makes his heart laugh. 

This is the word of Genevieve. At each 
pleasure lost she consoles herself with the 
pleasures of the daughter and of the young 


When Age Steals On. 191 

people. Their good teeth replace the teeth 
which she lacks, and their black locks hinder 
her seeing her own gray hair. People who 
live alone never know this happiness. The 
entire world has the appearance of declining 
with them, and everything here below ends in 
their grave. But for those who have a family 
nothing is finished, for all recommences ; chil- 
dren continue even to the judgment-day! I 
sometimes asked myself, in my unhappier 
hours, What profit comes of living rightly? 
Now, there is one at least which I know — that 
is, the power of growing old with impunity. 
In youth it costs something, at times, to do 
one’s duty; the effort is dull and the day long ; 
but later, when age has cooled the blood, one 
gathers what he has sown. Our efforts pay us 
in good reputation, in comfort, in security, and 
our well-being, even, becomes like a certificate 
of honor. 

Then the family is here which benefits by 
our past, joyfully receiving the returns of all 
our by-gone sufferings; if there were no other 
recompense this should suffice, and whatever 
God had required we would be able to hold 
him released. For my part, I ask nothing. 


192 A Workman’s Confessions. 

Here are the children, who have grown with- 
out sickness, who love us, and who have good 
hopes. What more could be asked ? Jacques 
is already the best master-mason of the coun- 
try ; he will yet prove that he will not make 
the worst contractor. Yesterday they put the 
cap-sheaf upon the little viaduct, the construc- 
tion of which was confided to him, and the 
engineer, who rarely praises, confesses that it 
is well done. As for Marianne, she has replaced 
her mother for many months in the laundry. 
Genevieve is sure that all will go well when 
she takes a hand, the workwomen sing the 
louder and work not less vigorously. It is only 
the young who know how thus to season work 
with gayety. 

God be blessed for having put both in such 
a good way ! At one time I trembled, for they 
also have had their temptations, Jacques above 
all, who was on the point of turning up an- 
other road and escaping us. 

Jacques has become the first workman of 
the country. No one else measures a piece 
of work at the first look, and the best ac- 
countant cannot make a calculation quicker. 
Besides this, a good companion, easy at laugh- 


When Age Steals On. 


193 


ing, but with a firm hand when it is necessary ; 
a true leader of men, and who knows how to 
get along without being led. 

Marianne is always the same good girl, who 
sings, who laughs, who embraces you, and does 
every thing easily. I seem to see in her her 
mother as I saw her the first time. Wherever 
she is she is like a ray of the sun. The great 
Nicholas, our overseer, has noticed her ; she 
is a brave worker, for whom we shall easily find 
a place in some family ; so I shall say nothing 
and let her go. To-day she has left with every 
body for a festival at the village. This is why 
I am alone, and this is why I have brought 
myself to write these pages. 

These shall be the last, for the rest of the 
book has served for accounts. My pen has 
got to the end of the white paper. I must, 
then, say adieu to my adventures of the past, 
but not to the recollections which they have 
left. These recollections, I have them here 
around me, living arid transformed, but always 
present. First, it is Genevieve, it is the daugh- 
ter and the boy, it is the comfort within and 
the good reputation without. When I shall 

have nothing to relate you shall be able to 
13 


194 A Workman’s Confessions. 

read every thing here. The confessions of the 
workman are most often written in his home 
itself, sad or joyful, comfortable or miserable, 
according as he has taken his life by the good 
or bad side ; for with all men old age is what 
their youth and middle age have made it. 


THE END. 






























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